


highlight reel

by sociable



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Ghost Mettaton, M/M, Multi, Pre-Canon, Sans Needs A Hug, mettaton alphys brotp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:10:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6015949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sociable/pseuds/sociable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every celebrity has to start somewhere, and Mettaton wasn't always sure of himself. Origin story for the Underground's brightest star.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. two dead guys

**Author's Note:**

> next chapter will have mettaghost. this is my first fanfic in literally years, what has toby fox even done to me.

It was dark, and he was alone.

Mettaton NEO lay sprawled out on the floor, face down.  
Where…?  
He remembered the human stepping forward with the dusty frying pan, the sudden fear that had lit his circuits on fire, the loud cracking noise when his chestplate buckled-  
Now, here.  
Mettaton moved forward a few inches, scraping his chin across the floor. He wriggled his arm loose, repositioned the hand that didn't have an arm cannon and propped himself up with it. _Look down_ , he told himself. _You have to know._ Smooth, unflawed metal greeted him. The wings still glowed on his back, the cannon unscathed, the chest piece perfectly seamed. Nothing wrong but the scratch on the side just like how Alphys left it, when she threw aside her welding torch with seconds to spare.  
He ran a diagnostics check. Everything seemed to be running fine.

Mettaton stood up suddenly. Though the spinning feeling in his spirit levels almost made him drop to the floor again, he felt more comortable with the situation under his own power.  
Why had the human's attack failed?

First things first. What was this place? Pitch blackness, as far as the eye could see. Even if your eyes were high-tech video cameras optimized for contrast. He lit up his LEDs about as bright as they could go. Still nothing. He dimmed them a bit. At least anyone else who happened to be here could see him. The silence buzzed in his ears.  
“Hello?” he tried.  
Nothing.  
He adjusted volume. “Hello?”  
He heard a muffled reply from far off into the distance and his heart leapt. His wings spread as he threw himself into the air and sped towards it.  
It had come from here, just about, he thought, hovering. He moved to drop to the floor, then chanced to look down. Directly below him was Sans, lying flat to the ground.  
“Sans, you waste. I almost trod on you.” snapped Mettaton, but honestly just felt relieved. Sans, the friendliest face in the underground.  
The skeleton pushed himself up. “no great loss. tread on me anytime.”  
“Fool.” Mettaton replied, but fondly. He crossed his arms and uncrossed them again. Might as well cut to the chase. “So. The human...killed us.” He kept his tone deliberately flippant.  
Sans turned his head away, “they definitely killed you. I, ah, got to watch.”  
“Pleasant.”  
Mettaton looked around at their location further, which was a mostly pointless exercise. “I honestly thought the afterlife would be more impressive than this.” _Then again you didn't exactly live like someone expecting to be judged, did you now_ , he thought.  
Sans tapped the ground with his knuckles. “honestly, I'm not entirely certain that's what this is. i think the human might be trying to cheat the rules.”  
“Bending them to our favour, or theirs?” said Mettaton. He knew less than Sans about this type of stuff, but he knew more than most. More than he should.  
“ours? the human erased the world. but tried to cheat that they erased it. they took...whatever our world was stored on and got rid of it. put it in here, so they could start again with a different version of us.”  
Mettaton shivered. “You keep saying here. You know where we are?”  
“theory time: we're in what's sort of like...” he gestured vaguely. “a metaphysical trash can. That we can't leave ourselves.”  
“Well that's just… fantastic,” Mettaton strode around Sans with a neat half-step and began to pace, “Truly fantastic. You know, my stage persona might have been found in garbage but I sort of hoped he'd depart in a better fashion.”  
Sans watched him pace, still half-sitting. “do you have to keep those lights on? you're probably using up a lot of battery.”  
“If anybody else is there, they need to be able to know we're here.”  
“figures. you always were good at being looked at.”  
Mettaton ignored the jibe. “Some talents never go away, one supposes.”  
He shut off a few of his battle functions. He didn't need them right now.

Sans fidgeted with the fur on his jacket. “so, ah, what happened when you fought the human? You kind of..”  
“Died instantaneously?”  
Sans averted his eyes “yeah.”  
“I was...Alphys built this body last minute. I didn't want that human to reach Asgore. He'd slaughter everything on the surface if he got that seventh soul.” _And I might not even blame him,_ thought Mettaton. _No, there had to be good humans. Had to be._ “The plan was to scare them off. Make something they wouldn't want to fight.”  
Sans shook his head. “logic like that doesn't work on people that crazy to complete what they've started.”  
“I suppose. Really though, I wanted to see,” he ran a finger down his perfectly sculpted cheekbone, “To see if they'd attack something that looked like a human. If they were a danger to that world, as well. I could just take the hit and see how willing they were.” he dropped his arm back down to his side, “I didn't expect to become corporeal, but...some things...”  
“you became corporeal like _that_?” Sans winced, “have to admit. seeing that kid wasn't much of a pleasant emotional experience for me either.”  
“It was awful,” The words spilled out without thought, and sounded more hollow than he realised they would. Almost like his ghost voice, way back then. “But- the human killed you too. I wonder- could we have done anything? Anything at all? Against something like that?”  
“probably not,” said Sans quietly. “but that doesn't sound like you.”

Mettaton sighed, running a hand over his cooling arm cannon. “That's that, then.”  
Sans slumped back down again. “all there is to do is wait. wait until the human gets round to deleting this offshoot. maybe hope they don't screw us up this badly the next time.”  
“Forget it.” said Mettaton, “I'm looking for Alphys and the others.”  
He ripped off a loose LED with a battery pack attached and tossed it to Sans. “Keep this on, ok? So we can find each other again.” 

Sans barely glanced at it, his eyes locked on Mettaton, the light in their sockets intense pinpricks.  
The robot snaked his metallic fingers around the bony ones of the skeleton. “When I get back with the others, I want to hear all your worst machinery puns. And I do mean all of them.”  
Sans squeezed his hand surprisingly tightly, then his fingers went limp. “you'll regret that.”  
Mettaton stood up to his full height. “Use the light, ok? I'll find them. All of them.” He ignited his wings, took a few running steps then launched into the air. 

Sans watched him as the spark of light grew smaller and smaller, until eventually he couldn't see it at all. He gently set the LED aside and took a pack of cards out of his pocket. There was nothing to do now but wait. 

_Are you sure you want to permanently delete these items?_


	2. it is a mystery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> making this twice as long as it was supposed to be was a much better idea than doing my homework  
> thank you all for the feedback so far :)  
> stuff like the opening chapter isn't gonna happen for a while. to clarify, the 'delete' thing was [player] deleting their post-genocide userdata so they can still get true pacifist ending bc get your icky fingers off my soul chara  
> napstablook apparently is old enough to have met toriel, so yeah mtt/blook are physically old but emotionally 20sish.

It was a tuesday. Tuesdays were currently good days.

The snails were out. The morning and afternoon chores had been done. He had eaten an early dinner. Right now there was nothing but the bright warm kitchen, the cooling cake and the half-full icing bag.  
It was a tuesday, and tuesday evenings were acting class nights. Just a small thing. Go to the local college, practise a monologue for a few hours and… prepare for instantaneous stardom. Ha. Just something to do, really. Something. The monologue he'd chosen to learn was sitting on the counter, and he'd chanted his way through it six times forward and once backward while the cake was cooling.

They were only a few weeks into the six week course, so he didn't know a lot about his coursemates. But they had to like cake, Mettacritic thought. Everyone liked cake. And this one was one of his best efforts yet - the icing just the right consistency, the smell divine, the sponge perfectly cooked with not a single burnt speck, despite fire magic being so temperamental. _Or maybe you're just bad at it?_ No, he decided, it was temperamental.  
Finished. The forest of dirty pans could stay in the sink for now.

He lifted the cake in front of him with his magic and went out to Napstablook's. It was already getting dark out. He knocked on the blue door quietly, heard no reply, and then slid in. His cousin was sitting at their computer, blocky headphones on and fully absorbed in the screen. Mettacritic poked the back of the chair. Blooky gestured at their headphones, conjuring a '2.24' out of magic to hover in the air for a moment. That was fine. He could wait. He put the plate with the cake on the floor and sat next to it, taking out his phone to fiddle with. Jerry popped up on the dating app and Mettacritic swiped left with such ferocity the phone case fell off. As he wrestled the case back on, he briefly wondered if the universe was trying to tell him something. He uploaded a photo of the cake to his Undernet page. Seconds later, there was a _ding_ as NAPSTABLOOK22 liked it.

His cousin turned around. “that ending...could use a little work. sorry. what is it, mettacritic?”  
Mettacritic pointed at the cake. “I know you prefer ghost food, but...”  
Blooky's face brightened. “no, that looks nice. i'll just have a bit.”  
The ghost took a bite out of their minute slice and made a small sound of approval. Mettacritic smiled and began flitting around, examining the bare walls and tutting in disapproval when he found a new crack.  
“Blooky, this place really is getting beyond help. We have got to get you some wall hangings or something.”  
“maybe you could make posters the next time we do a…musical thing?” said Napstablook, slowly finishing the slice. “i don't really care about decorations and stuff, but something from those might be nice.”  
“Absolutely! Like when we perform with Shyren!”

They both laid on the floor to contemplate life's mysteries. Napstablook breathed out, seemingly content. Mettacritic liked this tradition well enough, but always got fidgety after the first few minutes. He checked his phone again, and looked through last month's photos, the new ones.

Life had taken an odd turn after Altfanblook had left the farm to pursue life as a professional training dummy. Without the lively screaming matches over politics, fashion and who ate the last teacake but didn't throw the packet out, Mettacritic's existence in general was more peaceful than it had ever been. But it did throw into highlight how...well, not exactly dull, but samey everything was on Blook farm. Feed the snails, clean the track, serve maybe three customers, set the accounts, go to bed. He was only a hundred and ninety years old but he felt like he'd already retired from a job he'd never had.  
Mettacritic would never have said so, but he had been considering leaving himself until Shyren's sister died.  
Agla's passing had been a complete shock to everyone. So young and healthy and furiously energetic only two months ago. It was so difficult to think of her in a past tense he still hadn't deleted her number off his contacts list. Shyren was always reclusive, but now she didn't talk to anything or anyone at all.

Mettacritic tapped the floor. “Hey,” he said in a hushed tone.  
Blooky opened an eye. “yes?”  
“What did you do today?”  
“um...same old. snails. and..I made a new track. i'm thinking about putting it up on the forum, but..”  
“Do it,” Mettacritic urged. “You're really good, you know that.”  
Napstablook made a face, but didn't protest the compliment for once. “well, i stopped.. lurking.. to post a bit of that thing i did a while ago, and this one other posters said she liked it..  
“She sounds very intelligent and full of good taste.”  
Napsta smiled just a little. “i do like her. she added me on undernet. she says she has family living in the ruins.”  
Mettacritic abandoned all pretext of lying on the floor. “Will you go visit her?”  
“um... i don't see the point….she can hear music fine over the internet.” Napstablook closed their eyes again.  
He persisted. “Is she cute?”  
Napstablook turned their headphone volume up.  
“O- kaaaay,” said Mettacritic. He picked up the cake. “I can take a hint. I've got to go, anyway. Be back at nine.”  
“have fun. i'll cover over the snail troughs this evening, ok?” called Blooky.  
“You know it's my turn! Don't you dare.”  
He shut the door and returned home.

The cake was wrapped and ready to go. He had time. Mettacritic floated to the bakthroom at the back of the house and dimmed the lights so that he could see himself better in the plastic mirror. He applied his trademark eyeliner (999 Blackest Black), then sighed. He was pretty good looking for a ghost, but a ghost's appearance was naturally flavourless at the best of times.

He thought of -the transparent face in the mirror went pink- the first day at the acting course, when the instructor had set up the stage lights as a demonstration for the lighting for their final performance, then immediately shut them off, citing technical difficulties. It hadn't been technical difficulties. Mettacritic knew perfectly well it was because the harsh lights had bleached him out of existence. He supposed it was kind to make allowances for him like that, but the memory still popped up and stung at him weeks later.

Mettacritic considered, not for the first time that week, if he dared to possess something for the classes. Just slipping inside, say, one of the discarded toaster ovens from the dump, or a spare training dummy, or...something. Just for a few hours.  
But no. This argument with himself was far older than the acting course. Truthfully, he thought, it was probably older than the acting instructor. Ghosts shouldn't possess anything they wouldn't want to be permanently fused with. If the Blook elders had failed in teaching him anything else, they had impressed upon him that. He had no particular burning desire to be a toaster oven for the rest of his life.

Time to go. He wound a spangled scarf around himself, picked up the cake bag and headed for the college.

 

* * *

 

 

Well, that had been...something. The College cafeteria was large and almost empty at this time of night, with just a few lone students tapping on computers and drinking coffee. Mettacritic rubbed at his forehead, sat down and dumped the bag containing the cake on the plastic table. _Nobody can see you from a distance_ , he reminded himself. It was perfectly natural that he wouldn't get a large role. Even if the others weren't exactly great actors. But he wasn't the most objective judge of his own facilities, either. Possibly they were more qualified for a main role than he was. The thought didn't make him feel better.  
He had bought a coffee, and he began mechanically tearing up the chocolate powder sachets and dumping them in.  
_And people don't like taking food from strangers, because they fear it might be poisoned_ , he thought.  
No, it didn't matter. The course was going to be.. educational either way. It was just for fun, after all. He was a snail farmer and a ghost. The human media he collected bit by bit as it fell in Waterfall was realistically only ever going to be part of a hobby.  
Hobbies were good. Maybe he could find other people who liked humans, if he stuck up posters like Napstablook suggested. Hosted his own thing. Made something superior to a simple two-layer sponge. Wore something better. He picked at the cheap scarf. Business had not been good lately.

“s'cuse me?”  
Mettacritic turned around. “Hm?”  
It was a skeleton, with weary eyes and a big grin above a turtleneck and a thick coat. He was carrying a set of blueprints under his arm. _Kind of cute._ At least, not bad.  
“do you know where the science department is?”  
Oh. “I've no idea. I'm not a regular here.”  
The skeleton gestured to the cake, which sat exposed on the table next to the sixteen discarded empty sachets. “what's the occasion?” His arms fumbled and he dropped half his blueprints.  
“I wanted to eat a cake,” Mettacritic said. He paused. “..Do you want any?”  
The stranger looked at him as though it was the silliest question in the world. “obviously.” He dove under the table to retrieve the blueprints, leaving nothing but a pair of neatly laced sneakers poking out.  
Mettacritic tried not to laugh, and cut him a slice of cake that was honestly more of a wedge. One of the blueprints had rolled over to the inside table, and he picked it up. It seemed to be for some sort of bizzarre mechanical device. The writing on it was completely incomprehensible. He handed it over. “So...are you a lecturer? You look a little old to be a student.”  
“Not exactly,” said the person. He popped up from under the table. “I'm doing some research on a project.”  
He said it with a cheery smile, but it seemed clear the topic wasn't one he was interested in talking about.  
_Probably in a hurry._ A shame. There wasn't much else to do for him but to wait here or head back to the boatperson. Mettacritic tapped his phone. “It says here that the science building closes at nine, and it's eight forty now.” He showed the skeleton the map that he had drawn up.  
The stranger scanned it, then nodded. Mettacritic balanced the wrapped wedge on top of the blueprints.  
“thanks. i'd shake your hand, but, y'know."  
He walked off, looked back and grinned, then kept walking.

Mettacritic watched him until he was gone, then left without drinking his cold coffee.  
_Something different._


	3. ultimate human fanclub

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea that Alphys and Sans used to be enthusiastic before Flowey existed breaks my Mettaton-shaped heart. I wish we'd seen more of Alphys being passionate in the game, since it's something Undyne loves best about her.

Mettacritic hadn't even finished sticking the glittery 'Human fanclub meeting' sign on the glass portion of the door when it door slammed open and a yellow blur in a pink t-shirt ran straight through him.

The small lizard monster looked at the empty room and seemed to droop.  
Mettacritic cleared his throat.  
She whipped around, stepped back in surprise, then broke into a nervous smile.  
“Hi! Is this..”  
He gestured to the whiteboard. “You're the first one here! Have a seat!” No seats. “In a minute.”  
The plastic chairs were stacked in the corner, and he began unslotting them. The lizard dropped her bag and helped him to set up, to his surprise. Would ten chairs be enough? They could put out more as needed.  
“We've got the room for an hour, but I couldn't get us a TV.” He reached for his bags and began pulling out the human things he'd brought to talk about. In the end, he hadn't been able to choose between the leatherbound script to Shakespeare's history documentaries and the Animaniacs complete box set, so he had just brought both. He had just about had to drag the bag to the hotel conference room, and that was on top of the refreshments and the sign.  
The lizard girl followed suit, taking several softcover books and plastic cases out of her pink satchel.  
“I'm Alphys,” she said suddenly, blinking at him behind clean glasses.  
“Mettacritic.” They nodded at each other a little awkwardly. “Do you want to tell me more about this while we wait for the others?” He had no idea what any of her things were or why half of the books looked like they were printed backwards, and he had no desire to look stupid when everybody else showed up.  
“It's anime. Or manga. There's sort of a rule over which term you're supposed to use, if that's not being pedantic?” She looked up at him, as though asking permission.  
Mettacritic didn't know what anime was and wasn't sure he cared, but a fair amount of give-and-take was required in these sorts of things. He motioned her to continue.

After an estimated seventeen minutes(It's rude to check your phone over six times in a sentence, he repeated to himself like a mantra), there was still no one else here, and Mettacritic's knowledge of _Mew Mew Kissy Cutie_ 's metaphorical meanings and deep character arcs was second-greatest in the Underground. His knowledge of what the actual premise of _Mew Mew Kissy Cutie_ was remained non-existent.  
He was beginning to grudgingly accept that it was extremely probable no one else was coming. From her facial expression, Alphys herself seemed to have come to a similar conclusion, and her small talk ground to a halt.  
“So, yeah. The plot...it's a lot more interesting than...anything else in my life at the minute.” She squirmed a bit in her seat. “What do you do, in your life I mean?”  
“As little as possible.” He laughed flippantly, and hoped it didn't sound strained. “But really, I run a farm with my cousin.” And it's all you'll ever do and that's completely fine, he reminded himself. He had kept going to the evening course, but had not brought cake. If his only stage role was Unnamed Shopkeeper, he would be the finest bit part since whoever sold food to Olivier.  
“I'm kind of just out of college.. A lot of college. It's..hard to adjust.” Alphys spread her hands in an exasperated gesture.  
“What did you major in?”  
She stood up straighter in her seat. “Robotics. PhD. ”  
Wow. “That sounds fascinating. What do you do, then?”  
Alphys looked down again. “I work as an assistant at a Hotland deli counter right now? It's... I'm looking, but..yeah.”  
Oof. He knew that feeling. “I know, the economy is really bad at the minute. Our farm has been doing awfully.” For the past hundred years, at that. “Hey, if you ever want to swap deli produce for Underworld's finest snails...”  
Alphys looked curious. “I've never tried snails.”  
“I'll introduce you. I've spent the greater part of a century figuring out how to make them taste good.” He remembered the long ago attempt at snail pie and tried to unremember it. “Or at least, vaguely edible.”

Mettacritic glanced at the items stacked on the table.  
“Your collection looks really nice,” said Alphys, following his gaze, and she seemed sincere.  
“Thank you.” It was genuinely nice to find someone actually enthusiastic about humans. Or actually enthusiastic at all, without being crazy enough to collect knives. “Yours too. Where did you get them? Everything of mine's-”  
“From the garbage dump? I know, I see you there all the time,” she said, then slapped her hand over her mouth. “I mean- I'm not-”  
“You see me there, but I've.. never seen you,” Mettacritic said. “You've been...stalking me?” He wasn't sure if he should be flattered or completely weirded out, but flattery seemed to be winning.  
Alphys shook her head frantically. “A lot of the time I go to the dump, and I often see you there! But I never wanted to talk. So whenever you look in my direction I kind of...hid. Because if I said hi and you said hi everything would be awkward whenever we made eye contact and then I'd have to.. never go forever?”  
“Or we could have became friends that much earlier,” Mettacritic pointed out.  
Alphys blinked behind her glasses, and began to smile. 

  
He was curious, now. “Tell me, how do you avoid Woshua?” The janitor made a dedicated habit of sorting garbage into cubical piles, in the process neatly destroying anything that fell down intact.  
“I have a system,”- she scrabbled in her bag and pulled out a colour-coded time table- “He gets here these times, to clean up these trash piles, in this order.”  
“This is really impressive,” said Mettacritic, scanning the detailed notes. Frankly, his own strategy of alternate yelling at and pleading with the monster didn't have a scratch on this. “Can I take a photo of-?”  
Alphys flushed with pleasure. “I can print you a copy if you want.”  
“Great.” He floated up, peeled the sign off the door and began stacking the chairs. There wasn't much point staying here the full hour if no one else was going to show up.  
He went to Alphys, who was looking unsure, and handed her his phone to tap in her contact details. She fumbled around into her pocket for hers. It was the latest model, he noted as he handed it back.  
Alphys looked hopeful. “So..same time next week?”  
Mettacritic shook his head, gathering his bag. It would be even less fun to drag it back to Waterfall. “No point in a room if there's only two of us. I'll text you, ok?”  
Alphys nodded, looking a little overwhelmed.  
He thrust the tray of wrapped hors d'oeuvres at her. “I hope I'll see you soon, Alphys.” he said, and he found that he meant it.

 

* * *

 

  
_Visiting Temmie village was the least productive way to spend an afternoon imaginable, yet by far one of the funnest. Tems liked card tricks and liked buying useless garbage. Both were admirable traits._  
_Mettacritic made his way towards the fading lantern room, reaching out and trailing a wisp of magic through the damp grass. It was a good day to not look after snails. Maybe he'd ask the others to play a card game later._

_There was a pretty big crowd ahead, he realised. What was it? They all seemed very excited about something. Some sort of promotion? Or maybe a celebrity of some kind?_  
_Mettacritic floated straight through severeal members of the crowd- there were some perks of being intangible- and stopped dead._  
_It was King Asgore. Mr Dreemur, who visited his school when he was young and visited their snail farm once a month now that his wife had left to parts unknown. Asgore, the nice man he'd had pleasant conversations with about whether plants grew better when they heard music._

_Their King seemed endlessly taller and millennia older. His golden armour was coated with dents, and a conjured trident of magic hung from his right arm. The visor of his helmet covered his eyes. A true Boss Monster, there was no doubt about it, and if Mettacritic had a throat his breath would have caught in it._

_There was something on the floor of the clearing, he realised. Several somethings. Destroyed plants. Dusty footprints. Some sort of lump, covered with an oddly clean white sheet. And above it-_

_A human SOUL._

_It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. A whole and perfect heart that shone and rippled iridescent blue as the soft light from the toadstools reflected off it. It spun slowly. There was something alive and warm about it against the cool air. Asgore made a broad motion with his arm. The soul span upwards, coming to float above his outstretched palm._  
_Asgore cleared his throat._  
_“Three.”_  
_The crowd went wild._


	4. star chart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bag check for sociable's eyes!
> 
> take this so i don't have to look at it anymore

Mettacritic was staring at freshly-plated ghost toast and a steaming mug through unfocused eyes when Napstablook stuck their head through the kitchen wall.

“i'm going to the ruins. could you do the soil ph check today?”

He blinked, taking his time. Staying up until three to liveblog his reactions to Alphys’ suggested anime when he had to wake up at seven had against all odds turned out to be a bad idea. “..Sure. Why?”

“i'm going to go visit Quizillian,” said Napstablook, trailing closer to the table and pushing the jam jar towards him. “um. are you ok?”

It took him a moment to place the name. “Ah. Haven't…. in a while.” he yawned. “Quizillian. You miss the.. scintillating conversations you two shared?”

Napstablook gave a faint smile. “they're moving to a new dummy and they sent a postcard. i figured they'd want a...housewarming visit, or...whatever...”

“Just send a card,” said Mettacritic, unscrewing the jar. “It’s not like they make the effort to visit us all that often.”

“i guess that’s true, but I already said i’d go...” Napstablook looked awkward. “...besides, after what happened the last family séance… i don’t know how-”

“Blooky. That incident was almost entirely Altfan’s fault.” said Mettacritic. “And it was hilarious. So stop. It’ll be fine.”

Change the subject. “What do you think of these?” He pushed a neatly torn page of an electronics catalog across the table. “I was thinking about the Repeats headphones, maybe in glitteraqua?”

His cousin assumed an unfathomable expression.

Mettacritic stuffed the toast into his mouth. “Kidding.”

Napstablook relaxed. “i’d go for these ones if you want something balanced, but you should try them in person first.” A spot of grey magic hovered wistfully over a blocky chrome pair. “they tell me the soundstage is good on this one, but i already have… well, anyway. yeah.”

You’ve just picked your own Ghouliday present. “Excellent.”

 

Mettacritic waved Blooky off, watching him leave from the open door. He took a sip of what he decided was likely mislabelled hedgehog poison and picked up the newspaper left outside.

It was sunrise. Not that you could tell- Waterfall was damp, gloomy twilight every hour of every day, summer included. Sometimes he liked to fancy the sky was just a little less dark in the early hours, which for all he knew could be true.

He sprinkled ground cereals in the snail feeder and did the usual morning maintenance, then settled down to wait for customers. Frankly, they received so few it was more or less a paid free period. When Blooky was there, they usually spent the time planning their next performance.

Mettacritic flipped through his usual section of the newspaper, the Agony Aunt column( _My_ _ex-fiance_ _cheated on me with my sister on top of_ _my mother’s funeral object_ was particularly good, and he read it twice), and felt energized. He resolved to take today by the reins and complete the crossword.

 

Ten minutes later, he resolved to complete the Junior Jumble.

 

A shadow fell over his incomplete Jumble page.

“Hello?”

He looked up. His mouth went dry. Their only regular customer. King Asgore.

“Your Highness,” Mettacritic said carefully, still lying on the ground. He floated up.

The king's expression was as kind and unassuming as it had always been, despite his towering presence. “Please, no need for formalities. You know that.”

“I suppose,” said Mettacritic. He really had no idea what to think of Asgore, but it was difficult conjure up the details of the trip back from Temmie Village, not outside his house with the container of snail slime leaking onto the puzzle on the grass. It felt like a bad dream that had happened to someone else.

“The echo flowers are beautiful this morning,” Asgore commented, looking around the cave. He reached into a pocket. “I know your racing snails enjoy the smaller leaves from them, so I collected these on my way here.”

Mettacritic accepted the small parcel. “Thank you,” he said. Best not to think about it. Any of it. He reached to package Asgore's usual order. “How is your cooking going?”

The King adjusted his cloak. “It's going. I honestly ruin so many ingredients, I should really stop here twice as often as I do.”

“I've known the feeling,” said Mettacritic, fixing the string just-so and passing him the wrapped order. “We'd be happy to have you here more often, you know.”

Asgore tucked it beneath his cloak. “Thank you. You should take a trip to the flowers today, too.”

“I will,” he said, but his voice came out quieter than he meant it to.

Asgore nodded kindly and then walked away, leaning down to exchange a few words with the veteran snail racers.

 

Mettacritic decided he needed a break after that.

Ten minutes later, he had gathered a few things and put the 'Be right back' sign on the farm door and was making his way to the Snowdin-side of Waterfall. He would go to his favourite place.

 

There were a few people milling around in the star room- most of them the steady trickle of tourists who would show up to wish on the echo flowers. One was crouched over the communal telescope, very still. Mettacritic found a secluded spot, sunk himself into the soft tickly grass and looked up at the black almost-sky for a moment. The echo flowers murmured what could have been a greeting. It was always so comfortable here.

He and Blooky came here for picnics in off-season, but he often showed up alone, moreso lately. The studded ceiling had an attraction to him that it simply didn't for his cousin.

Mettacritic pulled out the Astronomy book and his half-finished star chart and flipped to a heavily bookmarked page, studying the rocks set out to resemble Draco. Yes, that was as it should be, at least from a distance. He would need to double check it, do some detail work maybe. He’d need the telescope.

He gathered up the books and approached the lone tourist. “Can I...”

The tourist looked around, and it wasn’t just a tourist at all. The skeleton from the college blinked back at him. “Feel free.” he said, stepping away from the telescope.

“Thank you.” Mettacritic adjusted the telescope- it was unusually well set up, he noted- then looked up.

“You’re..?”

“sans.” said the skeleton, hands in his pockets and friendly grin on his face. He was dressed differently, wearing a heavy jacket with traces of snow on the fur collar.

“Mettacritic.” He felt like he had met more interesting people in the past weeks than in the past several years. “Did you find your department before it shut, then?”

“yeah,” Sans said. “but they didn't have what i was looking for.”

“That's a shame.”

“it's fine. my brother loved your cake, by the way. how'd you know to cut enough for two?”

Ha ha. “Merest intuition.” He swivelled the telescope. Beta Persei, star among stars. “So, what are you doing here? Just visiting?”

Sans opened his mouth, then closed it again. “procrastinating.”

Mettacritic traced over the bright pinpricks that made up Auriga with his eye, then swivelled the telescope around. “Join the club.”

Sans examined the ceiling, then looked down at him. “are you looking for something?”

Mettacritic took his eye away from the eyepiece and indicated.

Sans bent down next to him and looked through it. “sirius?”

“You know,” he said, pleased. “Brightest star in the sky.”

“everyone has hobbies, right?”

Mettacritic flew up and gestured. “This one, do you know this one?”

He squinted. “orion?”

“Yes! Gerson likes that one too. He says it's exactly like what he remembered seeing back when he was on the surface.” Mettacritic dropped down. “Although his memory's not great.”

Sans was silent for a moment as he looked through the telescope. “must be disappointing for him.”

“Why?”

“like...salt in the wound, almost. having it be so similar.”

“I know.” He did. “But it's the best we have, so..”

Sans took his hand off the telescope. “that’s true.”

“Especially since that won't really be a problem, sooner or later.” He didn't like saying it.

But there it was. Freedom was within his lifespan and probably Sans’s, assuming a human fell down at the same rough rates that the rest had. It was only a matter of time. Then they would leave. See the real stars.

Start a war.

Best not to think about it.

“Where are you from?”

Sans bent down and pulled a few strands of grass out of the ground. “snowdin. my brother and me. we got there recently, actually. we probably won't be here very long.”

Must be from the Capital or Hotland. “Until you...finish your project?” he guessed.

Sans nodded. “thought I would explore for a while, first. see what there is to see around.”

“So you've never been here before?”

Sans shook his head.

“Have you seen these flowers before, ever?”

“not in person. they talk, don’t they?”

This would be fun. He hustled him over to the nearest blue flower. “Say something to it. Don't be shy. It's just a flower.”

Sans leaned in. “i have absolutely no idea what i'm doing.” The flower parroted the sentence back exactly.

“...i sound like that out loud.” Sans said, put out.

Mettacritic grinned. “Like clockwork. You really are a tourist.”

Sans looked askance at him. “did it surprise you like that when you first moved here?”

“I've always lived here.” Did he give an air of being from somewhere else? That was interesting. Maybe his efforts to work the Waterfall twang out of his speech patterns were paying off. “Although, once..my cousin decided to use them as music playback one day- you know, in the off-hours- which worked pretty well- but they all bounced the sound around for hours with nothing to interrupt. The royal guard showed up with a noise pollution complaint.”

They both chuckled.

“It's...a lot funnier if you've met my cousin.” His cousin. His cousin who left him in charge of the farm.“What time is it?”

Sans checked his bare wrist. “probably around twenty-to three?”

Mettacritic groaned. “I was supposed to be back thirty minutes ago..”

He stuffed the book and the chart back into his bag. “This is your fault for being so fascinating.”

“where are you going?”

“Back to the farm, it’s on the other side of Waterfall near the Riverperson.”

“can I walk with you? not that I’m lost or anything.”

He didn’t look lost. “Sure you’re not.”

Sans left the telescope there and they both left the room. The bridge over the lake was long and rickety. “This thing is slippery, watch your step.”

A few drops of moisture, followed by bigger splotches sprinkled the dry wood, and he sighed irritably. “Let's move faster.” Of course, the one day he left the umbrella at home.

“do you not like rain?” said Sans. He had pulled his glove off and was moving his palm this way and that, letting raindrops trace the lines of his hand bones.

“It's fine when I'm indoors, I just hate getting rained through.” He shivered. “It's not a pleasant feeling at all.” For him and Altfan, anyway. Napstablook didn't seem to mind at all.

Much to his surprise, Sans pulled off his jacket. “would this help?”

Mettacritic tentatively draped it over himself. “It does, thank you,” he said. They passed the end of the pier in silence, punctuated only by the soft sound of the raindrops pattering the water. It was a nice silence, Mettacritic thought. The jacket was barely waterproof but the furry lining was pleasantly soft. Sans didn't seem to care that he was being soaked in the slightest.

 

Sans seemed to enjoy the bird ride over the gap -Cherie was a darling, she really was- and there was Blook farm, right where he had left it with absolutely no customers. The jumble puzzle page had now completely disintegrated.

“Chez Moi. Mine's the red one, my cousin's the blue one. Undyne's house is that way, and the riverperson is that way.”

“undyne's house?”

Nothing was urgent, really. “We can go if you want.”

Mettacritic opened his door and brought out a pair of umbrellas. He reluctantly pulled off the warm jacket and handed it back.

Sans examined the embroidered dog decorations on his umbrella.

“Nice,” he commented.

“I collect novelty ones. And diaries. Desk fans.”

Sans eyesockets twinkled. “So you collect collections?”

“Stop.” said Mettacritic, but he didn’t mean it.

 

They reached Undyne’s house. The windows were dark and nobody seemed to be home.

“Why are you interested in her, then?” Mettacritic kept his tone neutral.

“oh, my brother's her new biggest fan. he saw her give standing orders to the dogs in grillby's on saturday and fell in love like that.” Sans snapped his fingers.

Oh. “Tell him he's wasting his time,” said Mettacritic.

“not like _that_. he just thinks she's really cool.”

The rain-speckled cloth dummy that until then had been stationary in the background twitched.

“My other cousin, Altfanblook,” Mettacritic indicated.

The dummy cracked open an eye and an internal mouth and looked Sans up and down. “If you're related to the idiot who spent all night waiting under my employer's bedside window, I already hate you.”

“thanks.” said Sans.

Mettacritic pointed the handle of the umbrella at him. “See, Altfan, this is why you don't have any friends.”

“Your makeup's running,” responded Altfan, then closed their eyes again.

 

Sans studied the fish-shaped house with mild interest as Mettacritic racked his bag for a pocket mirror. “undyne, then. what's she like?”

“Undyne is the best captain we've ever had and we're very lucky to have her,” Mettacritic said flatly, having not found one. It was true. Waterfall's very own home-spun hero was near-universally beloved, especially among the younger set. She was mobbed by an admiring crowd at every town meeting, and her side always taken in debates there. Even when her opinions were terrible. Which they usually were.

“i mean, honestly.”

Mettacritic narrowed his eyes.

Sans grinned. “honestly.”

“Undyne makes a career out of forgetting people's names and being completely wrong,” said Mettacritic with satisfaction. He hesitated. “Your brother should be fine with her, though. She'd never hurt an innocent monster.”

Sans seemed satisfied with that. As they walked back to the snail farm, the rain spell seemed to be over. He collapsed the umbrella and shook it out.

“Don't mind Altfan, by the way. It's not personal.” They had good reasons to be cranky, he thought. “Unless you want to buy snails or play Thundersnail, this is,” he pressed the umbrella to his heart in a heartfelt gesture, “our goodbye.”

“play thundersnail?”

“That’s better.”

Thundersnail was something he had set up with Altfan in a rare bout of actual cooperation, his favourite part of the farm by far. The elder Blooks would undoubtedly have loathed it.

“10g. Encourage the yellow snail as hard and unnecessarily loudly as you can and you win if she wins.”

Sans’s gold rattled loudly in the hollow moneybox. The skeleton patted the shell of the small buttercup-colored snail. “win...if you want. no pressure, buddy.”

Mettacritic picked up the chequered flags and did a mid-air cartwheel. “Here-we-GO!”

The race began.

Sans leaned on the fence, his chin propped up with his hands, and quietly watched the snails trickle by. After five minutes, the yellow snail passed the finish line, dead last. Sans got up and stretched.

“well, that was fun.”

“You didn't exactly play it right,” said Mettacritic, not sure if he was irritated or amused. Well, they still got paid. He bent down to unwrap some echo flower leaves for Custard to eat.

“mm. i should probably be getting back to my actual work now.” said Sans, leaning his umbrella against the fence.

Mettacritic made a vague noise of assent, stroked Bloom’s shell once then straightened up.

Sans had gone.

For someone that well padded, the man moved fast, thought Mettacritic. He had been planning to invite him inside the house to dry off before he went back to Snowdin. People with bodies didn’t like being cold, did they?

He went inside his house, dropped the umbrellas on the ground and shut the door. His phone vibrated and he pulled it up automatically. Good. Alphys.

 


	5. party start

Ah, there it was. He fished the CD case out from the side of the bed, gave it an affectionate pat, and placed it in the brimming bag sitting on the floor behind him.

 

Alphys's text message had been weird, to say the least.

_bring all your favourite stuff to my house, esp. your human stuff. you dont have to show them to me, just bring them :3_

So he was. There was far more possessions from the garbage dump than he'd realized had managed to accumuate over the years. Magazines upon magazines, coverless books, tattered tv guides, stage costumes with half the sequins rotted off. What was the theme here, he wondered.

 

Mettacritic zipped up the bag and levitated it to rest across himself. How would he have reacted to this particular lunch date a few years ago?

Alphys was...well, not the coolest person in the world. But then, he had reminded himself, it wasn't as though a snail farmer who made cakes nobody ate could say such a thing with authority. Besides, anyone who'd seen Napstablook's internet history should know that people weren't usually what they seemed on the outside. And Alphys had his hobbies in common, even if he suspected they didn't have the same reasoning behind them.

They'd video chatted and exchanged movie recommendations- he had suffered through twenty of _Mew Mew Kissy Cutie_ 's some fifty-two episodes before he could take no more, and she had at least attempted to watch _Citizen Kane_ and really, effort was all he asked. On Friday they had went to the hotly anticipated _Froggit's Revenge_ together and afterwards argued so thoroughly about its merits vs the book Alphys almost capsized the boat on the river ride home.

This was the first time he'd been invited to her house, though. She had never been to his either. He left Blooky a quick note, then began to make his way to the riverperson. (“Don't rock the boat..in more ways than one,” they'd trilled, and Mettacritic could only roll his eyes)

 

Like the cinema, Alphys's street was at the very outskirts, where Waterfall and Hotland met. The sky blurred patchy dark orange. It was a surprisingly large house with a grey slab of yard- she lived with roommates, he remembered, but didn't really talk to them. There was a window box hanging outside the second floor with a dead plant sticking out of it.

Mettacritic rang the doorbell, adjusting and re-adjusting his bag. Alphys ripped the door open a second later, her shirt buttoned askew and three pencils stuck behind her spikes. There was a dirty rag in one hand and another pencil in another. “Mettacritic! You're here a lot earlier than I thought.” She dithered, as though considering asking him to leave, but dropped the rag, leading him through a cluttered hallway and up the stairs to a room with a simple 'Alphys' lanyard. She stood to the side as he went in, hands hovering awkwardly over her shirt.

Predictably enough, the air was stuffy and the wall behind him was lined with shelves of human dvds and manga carefully organized by title and author. There were interesting touches, though. College academic trophies were crammed into a cardboard box inside the half-open wardrobe, and a set of colourful, electronic tiles lay scattered under the desk. Mettacritic floated over to the bed and sat on the edge of the faded coverlet.

Alphys took a pencil out from her spikes and dropped it on the desk top. “That tile puzzle was my graduation project. Don't, ah, look directly at it.”

He dropped the bag on the floor. “So. Are you going to explain this mysterious text at all?” He wiggled his phone at her.

Alphys took a deep breath. Her spikes were ruffled and her eyes shone behind her glasses. “You know your story about how you almost possessed the toaster oven?”

Mettacritic stiffened, and he lowered the phone. “Yes,” he said. He had found one in the dump a while back when looking for the missing half of a series box set, and in the heat of the moment had texted her about it. It had felt good to get that out into the air so it could stop rattling around in his brain. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, I had a thought,” Alphys hands twisted and untwisted in her lap. “What if, you did?”

She pulled a sketchbook from the cluttered desk and folded it back on itself.

Sketches drawn with mechanical precision. Of a... construct of some kind? A humanoid form. He looked at it blankly, uncomprehending.

 

“I thought I could build you something to possess,” said Alphys, her voice brimming with excitement. “So people would actually be able to see you under stage lights and stuff.” Her fingers fumbled as she turned the page. “Like, a robot.”

Mettacritic felt as though he had slipped out of touch with reality. Like when his headphones had glitched unresponsive when he was floating through the Hotland mall and he had wondered for a split second if his hearing had somehow turned off.

“I'm really familiar with the technology. Building something for you should be easy, at least the base. I don't know anything about sound equipment, but I can learn!”

There were more drawings. More pages of elegant devices hung together with bolts and rivets and wires. The academic trophies shone hazy gold in the edge of his vision.

 

This rewrote everything. Thoughts and dreams and hopes he'd tried to bury were ripping out of the cobwebs that had formed a long time ago.

“You want to make a robot body for me to possess, so that I can perform?” He spoke normally, but something beneath his throat was churning.

Alphys nodded her head, her face still lit up, and a pencil fell off and hit the floor with a soft thunk. “Exactly.”

Was the green tile under the desk turned on, or was it just the lighting? “Good,” he said. He tried to concentrate on the harsh lines of the anime poster on the wall opposite instead of his own thoughts. “Should we start designing it now or later?”

“Now. That's why I asked you to bring your favourite stuff to show me,” said Alphys, flipping to a new page. “So we can work off it.”

Mettacritic looked at his bag of half-broken things, feeling as though he had been handed a scalpel and asked to dissect himself. “Truthfully, I'd rather make my own sketches, if you give me the base to work off. I have a lot of art supplies at home.”

If Alphys recognized it was a lie, she didn't let on. She began attacking the page with a pencil. “Right, a base.”

He had to say something. “Can it be taller than that?”

Alphys threw the sheet aside and started on a new one. “That's preferable actually, more room for circuitry,” she paused. “I don't suppose...”

“What?” said Mettacritic, a little uneasy.

“Would you mind if it had other functions other than the normal ones and the performing ones?”

“What like?”

Alphys seemed to bury down into the collar of her shirt. “Advanced weaponry?”

Mettacritic had a sudden and extremely appealing mental image of himself somehow punching a building in half. “...why?”

“Well, this would be the first big thing I've built since graduation, and people need to see your work to give you grant money, and..” her voice dropped in volume, “...King Asgore is pretty interested in weaponry.”

He saw through this immediately. Alphys face, what little of it was visible, was pink. “Ah, I see. You build this and we both benefit.” That made it better, he thought. More of a partnership. “I wouldn't have to.. actually do anything for Asgore, would I?”

“Nothing you don't feel comfortable with,” promised Alphys.

It wasn't the best case scenario, but what was, really?

 

They debated of metals and shallow aesthetics for a while afterwards, and then took a break to watch a recent anime film Alphys had dug up on the television downstairs. It was a good story, one full of cliffhangers and attractive people, but Mettacritic couldn't concentrate in the slightest. Alphys sat beside him in the dark room, seemingly absorbed. The glow of the television hit her scales and shone onto the couch through him.

 _Can and will you actually do this, or are we just humouring each other_ was what he wanted to ask, but even if it was fake he didn't want to pop the bubble forming at his core.

 

When Mettacritic trailed back home late in the evening, he ignored Napstablook's hint that playing dominoes might be fun and merely sat in his dishevelled house alone. He had a lot of thinking to do and a lot of paper to do it on.


	6. when you take the math you know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a breather

They were in the tiny basement workshop of a local college, but they may as well have been in one of Hotland's better-class magma streams. Underneath the provided earmuffs and safety goggles he wasn't even sure if he needed, Mettacritic felt mummified and stupid. The forge sizzled with fire magic, and the convection rolled out of it in thick waves. Alphys huddled over the anvil, unrecognisable under layers of protection gear. The wall flickered orange. In the vice, something glowing yellow lay cradled.

Alphys said something he couldn't hear. He needed to think. This was the moment. He drew upon his magic and conjured a passable set of tongs, gripped the metal and pulled. Much to his relief, it gave way perfectly.

Alphys spread her fingers and the air was full of cold magic, snowflake pieces swirling in the air for a second. His goggles steamed up. The metal dulled to a darker grey as it cooled. It could almost be mistaken for a ribcage now, rough and unrefined though it was. Mettacritic let out a sigh of relief he didn't realise he'd been holding and removed his earmuffs as Alphys turned off the forge. She pulled off her featureless mask and grinned toothily at him, her sweaty spikes held back with a loveheart-pattern headband. “Lunch break?”

Mettacritic laughed. “You looked so cool and then you ruined it."

He was glad to get out of the cramped, dark space. They had gotten use of the room because Alphys's old college professor still held a soft spot for her, but her main hope was that they would get an actual grant when he was presented to King Asgore. He hoped so too. This space wasn't exactly inspiring to him and he supposed a scientific mind would think the same.

They headed out of the room to another, smaller chamber where their bags lay sprawled across the hardwood floor. It was comfortably cooler there, and he took the opportunity to rest his eyes.

A towering rectangular machine lay caseless on the desk, its wires and inner mechanisms exposed and frayed diodes poking out. A faceless metallic skeleton lay tucked between circuit boards, as though in sleep. The sketches for what both would look like when finished lay on the side in a sticker encrusted ringbinder- he had twice taken breaks when drawing at home to cringe with embarrassment, knowing full well Alphys would be studying the entire thing. But all of that would probably be pretty funny at some point, and if you didn't ask, you didn't get.

Alphys had asked him to help build it before she'd even read his notes, citing that the thirtieth law of Monster-forging held that metal remembered magic, and therefore his body might respond better to him if he helped shape it himself. Mettacritic didn't know if this was true or if she understandably just wanted some company in the uncomfortable workspace, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't have missed this for anything.

Alphys picked up her phone off the desk and flipped to the calendar function, biting her lip.

“We can get the first body finished on the schedule we'd thought, but the humanoid one is going to take longer...maybe a lot longer.”

“I don't mind, truly. Perfection takes time,” Mettacritic assured her.

“The battery life is kind of really terrible, but I guess I could take out a few features-”

“Alphys. Don't you dare.”

“I knew you'd say that.” said Alphys, snapping the phone case shut. “I suppose I could look at it after everything else is settled.”

Everything else. He reached for his packed lunch, and felt mildly surprised. Napstablook had hidden the last box of yoghurt raisins in his bag.

“What's your family like, Alphys?”

Alphys unhooked her chopsticks from the lid of her bento box. “They're fine. My mom's a doctor, and my dad's a technician at the Core, so we used to live in the Capital.”

“Is there just you and your parents?”

“Yeah. I used to wish for a sister or something when I was little. But, y'know.” she shrugged. “I kind of liked having the place to myself too.”

“No guarantee you'd have gotten along with a sister even if you had one. Our wider family reunions are either beyond boring or borderline cage matches.”

“That's true. Every time I go visit my parents I end up doing tech support on their vcr.” She prodded a rice ball. “I just internet search the problem and do what the second forum post says? My entire education's worth, so far.”

“Why did you choose robotics?” Mettacritic asked, offering her a raisin. "I'm curious."

“There's not really a big reason,” said Alphys, taking one. “I mean, didn't think, when I was a little kid 'oh, I wanna grow up to make robots', I just took old junk apart to see how it worked. I didn't really realise that people did stuff like that as a job until way later.” She stuffed a seaweed piece into her mouth and chewed it, looking around the empty classroom. “It's weird. To apply they make you write out a six page essay about why you care. And I listed all this junk about how I wanted to make people's lives better and easier. But this is the first thing I've done since enrolling that actually felt like it's helping someone.”

Mettacritic scanned the ingredients list of the raisin box without reading it. “When I was little, I wanted to grow up to marry a billionaire.”

“Become a billionaire. Marry yourself,” said Alphys.

Mettacritic pointed at her with his water bottle. “You've done it. You've figured out my life plan.” He raised it. “Hey. To our glorious, stardust and government grant-filled futures.”

Alphys held up her soda in response. “Our futures.”


	7. next to do re me fa so

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not gonna lie, I crammed my ear against my computer for research writing this

They were in the classroom again, hopefully for the last time. Florescent lights buzzed over his head and into his brain. Mettacritic felt empty, partially from hunger. He had almost made celebration cupcakes last night, but had reconsidered given that one stray spark of misapplied fire magic could have burned his house down. He had written, instead. Songs.

Alphys sat at the paper-covered desk, the ringbinder in her claws. Half of her hairclips were in backward. A phone lay discarded on the desk, a photo gallery displayed. There was something odd on it, he observed. Photographs of blueprints with incomprehensible handwriting on them. They stirred something within him, but he couldn't place it. “What are these?”

She glanced up, down then shut the binder. “Old blueprints. SOUL magic as it relates to...some machine, or some sort of machine. I probably couldn't have built your core without them. My professor showed me, as a radial interest thing.” Alphys averted her gaze. “I may have kind of taken the pictures without asking, actually.”

“It's the result of a thing that matters,” Mettacritic told her. “And you will have a result and a half, I assure you.”

There was a floor length, dirty mirror propped up with books and a chair- another garbage dump find. And next to it..

“You're an artist,” he said. Again.

 

It stood there, lightly quivering, already powered on. Iconic. Rectangular. A fantastic contraption of belts and motors and dials with the front half-open. The arms hung loosely braced either side, the fingers curled into themselves. The metallic core edging glimmered pink, and there was a hollow, upside down heart spot. Just for his soul, he knew, and the feeling gnawed inside him.

Alphys stood up and walked over to him. “Are you ready to," she indicated to the obvious, "Or do you want more time?”

Mettacritic didn't answer just yet. He had never possessed anything before, but that was the one thing he wasn't worried about. The ancient knowledge of how to possess and phase and fade away was written into his very ectoplasm.

“Here goes everything,” he said.

He dove in.

 

He was now there where there had not been, and there was a lot of there in him. Cacophonous noise- clicking, ticking, a steady hum. He felt warm and wrapped up, like being trussed up in thick blankets in the morning. As he stood there unmoving, Alphys clicked the core shut, closed the outer casing and stared up at him expectantly- up at him? She was his height, wasn't she? Mettacritic slumped forward, disoriented. Alphys ran around him, put her sweaty hands on his back and wheeled him towards the closest wall.

He placed his hands on the polished wood and tried to focus on each stitch in the glovesilk until the whir of the fans and the grinding of the hard drive reader faded into the background. His new heartbeat, he realised. Fancy that.

Mettacritic pressed the wall with a gloved hand, delicately at first, then moderately. The wall pressed back. Force. His gloves and the wall lit with a surprised green, the soft glow scattering across the surface. His screen had flashed on.

“Oh,” he said out loud, then gasped. A voice that was unquestionably his yet nothing like his own wispy echo had boomed out. “Oh!” He turned away from the wall, flexed his fingers and placed an arm behind his back. Could he? “But virtue, as it never will be moved,” he recited, and he could not just hear but _feel_ the words as they flowed through his voice matrix and resounded through his speakers.

He moved forward, backward, experimentally and turned around to look at Alphys, holding out a wooden box. She was grinning ear to ear. “You want to test that weight-bearing ability for me?”

Mettacritic ignored the box, picked up Alphys and placed her on the top of his head in a fluid motion. She shrieked, then started laughing. “We've done it. We've actually done it!” she said at the top of her lungs.

He spun around in a lazy few circles, Alphys clinging onto his edges for dear life, although his movements were perfectly smooth. Keeping his balance was far easier than he had thought it would be- the shifting weight he felt as gravity almost-but-didn't-quite tip him over was a completely alien yet fascinating sensation. Was there a spirit level inside him, perhaps?

He wheeled over to look at the mirror. He stopped. If Alphys hadn't been reflected back as well he wouldn't have believed it was a mirror at all. But she was there, and the rough fabric of her labcoat and softer cotton of her dress was pooled across his head, which must mean...this person was him.

Well then.

Mettacritic willed the screen to change. A certain initial formed in red and orange. Alphys, not missing her cue, took her claws away from his sides and began to clap appreciatively.

“We've done it,” he finally agreed, and suddenly everything seemed within reach.


	8. you will be mist

 

He had left his body with a type of reluctance he hadn't even known was possible, but it wasn't going anywhere. He just needed a day.

 

“Leaving?” said Gerson. He scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“Yes.” said Mettacritic. “I'm leaving. There's a business opportunity in Hotland I don't want to miss.” He had rehearsed the line to himself on the boat ride home as he stared into the river, and he had to admit it was not one of his best efforts.

Gerson rubbed his chin. “Another training dummy in the family, then?”

“Nothing made of cloth. Electronics.” Mettacritic said. It wasn't technically a lie, so there was no chance it would show up as one on his face. People who were really old or hardened were usually good at reading people, he knew.

“Well, times are what they are,” said Gerson. “As they always are. I remember when your Quizillian still lived here. They had the deepest thoughts on history and all sorts. Almost didn't know what to do with myself when they went to the Ruins.” Gerson straightened some of the table detritus and stood up, stretching. “Feels like yesterday they left.”

“Right,” said Mettacritic. It had, in fact, been decades.

“But, of course, you'll still be continuing with your artwork?” said Gerson, settling against a stalagmite.

He had always liked this cave, especially the pink crystals embedded into the dark wall. “Artwork?”

Gerson's hand hovered over a yellowed postcard of the wishing-room. “You know. Stars.”

Mettacritic couldn't stop himself from smiling. “Trust me, I will be.”

“Good. Energetic young people like you are the only thing keeping this place interesting.”

“I won't disappoint,” said Mettacritic. He adjusted his rainhat. “Goodbye, then.”

Gerson pushed a crab apple across the counter. “For the road? On the house.”

 

He floated outside for a while, twisting off the claw of the crab apple meditatively. He knew where he had to go and who he had to tell next, last, but he didn't like it.

As it turned out, Altfan made half the decision for him. As Mettacritic went into the small clearing with the pool, he saw them hovering at the entrance to the garbage dump. Altfan saw him, froze, and visibly fumed.

Tourists ran for cover.

Mettacritic took off his hat. It was a nice one, and he didn't want it totally destroyed.

“You told everyone except _me_ ,” snarled Altfan. “Do you have _any idea_ how _stupid_ you made me look in front of-”

“I am sorry,” said Mettacritic, cutting them off. “I wanted to save the best people till last, and I thought you wouldn't go out today anyway.” He produced a packet of chocolate teacakes out of his bag and shoved it into Altfan's face. Technically it was the people who left that got leaving presents, but he doubted his cousin had ever read an etiquette book.

Altfan looked slightly less irritated and a lot less murderous.

“Anyway, yes. I'm moving.”

“So you changed your mind,” said Altfan.

“Yes,” said Mettacritic. Please don't rub it in too much, he thought.

Altfan paused. “Good luck with that.”

They... seemed to mean it. “Thank you,” said Mettacritic carefully. “It was nice knowing you.”

They gave a grunt of assent.

Mettacritic started towards his house, floating over the small pool towards the gap in the stone walls.

“Hey!” Altfan called from behind him.

Mettacritic turned back.

“Don't be nervous when they punch you in the audition, ok? You won't feel a thing!”

“Thanks! I'll..I'll keep it in mind!”

 

There were a few bags already stacked outside his door. He had already packed that morning. His house was still a wreck from when he'd searched for his entire human collection, but that didn't matter much any more.

 

It took Mettacritic a long time to knock at the blue door. He wasn't entirely sure how long he waited before doing so.

There was a scrap of wool attached to the door, still. Where he'd knotted it around a stray splinter and left it. A fortnight ago they'd knitted snail shell cosies together and Blooky had laughed until they choked when he'd given it little sleeves.

This was… so awful. Could he not just go, leave a note and then send tickets for his first performance, as and when? He scolded himself for his cowardice. Blooky deserved better than that. Even if it meant having the worst conversation anyone had ever had in living memory.

 

At last, he phased through the door.

Napstablook was on the computer, as always. Same forum? It appeared to be. Everything as it always was.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“hey,” said Napstablook.

Mettacritic couldn't see their face, and felt grateful. He took a deep breath. What would he have wanted? Just for someone to rip the bandage off. “I have some...pretty big news. I have a friend who's a scientist. She made me a body, and I'm moving to Hotland so I can use it. This is probably a surprise.”

Napstablook minimized the forum window. “..actually...I kind of guessed something was up.”

Mettacritic blinked. “You...you did?”

Napstablook looked at him blankly. “..yeah.”

“Oh,” said Mettacritic. It was that obvious. But then, Blooky was the oldest of any of them.

Napstablook smoothed down their headphone cord. “look…if having a body is going to make your life better, you should go get one.”

“You mean that?” said Mettacritic. “You're okay with that?”

Napstablook stood there, very still. “if you stay here when you don't want to, neither of us are going to be happy.”

Mettacritic rushed forward and curled around them in the closest thing ghosts had to a full body hug. His cousin accepted it, but didn't deepen the embrace.

“Whatever you do, you're going to be really good at it, because you're you.” Napstablook said, in the tone of someone reciting obvious facts.

He couldn't think of anything to say.

Mettacritic felt dazed. When he promised to email and send postcards as often as possible, when he phased out of the door, when he picked up his bags and looked back at his red house for the last time, it was all oddly unreal. It didn't feel permanent, didn't feel like anything more than a hour long break where he'd go off to dredge for water beetles before coming back and having another sleepy day at the farm.

He floated into the clearing again- the tourists were back- and glanced into the pond. Someone barely visible stared back, and he felt new resolve. He knew where he was going.

 


	9. was i worth the wait?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please pretend i know how tv shows, mechanical devices or anything in general works

“This is a...” He followed the path on the scientific diagram with a finger. “Heating coil?”

Alphys nodded, lowering the robotics textbook. “Got it in one, Mettacri- Mettaton.”

He didn't blame her for the slip. He was making it himself far more often than he'd like.

If someone had told Mettacritic a few months ago that he would soon be in his very own dressing room with a star on the door, he'd have… laughed? Ridiculed them? He didn't quite know. But.. he was. He reached for the metal polish lying on the dresser and began applying a coat to his already spotless arms.

His rectangular face was reflected firmly in the centre of the mirror edged with circular light bulbs. They burned white spots into his vision and lit highlights in the cans and anime-decorated toolkit on the table. The rest of dressing room was admittedly a little shabby- whitewashed walls with a red curtain drawn over the top and a small cubbyhole made for a bag. His gigantic purple one was wedged out of it conspicuously. There was only one chair, but it didn't matter. He hadn't sat down once all day.

Alphys leaned back in the chair, her jacket fully zipped up despite the heat. “I have to say, you're getting almost as good as some of the students I tutor. I mean, the first year ones.”

“Well, I certainly have the motivation,” Mettacritic pointed out, screwing the lid back onto the polish and dropping it neatly on the table. He opened a drawer and picked up the script again. “I did actually recognize at least three of the words you used when we pitched me.”

The pitch had been a blur- he had draped himself with a curtain ready to be unveiled, but Alphys had missed her cue to pull it off as she fumbled with the powerpoint of his various features. He had ended up reciting his entire prepared monologue still wearing it. He hoped this had been taken as indicative of a daring attitude. Of course, if it hadn't worked he wouldn't be here.

It was time to head out. Alphys put her textbook in her bag and stood up. “One of them saw my name in a tv guide and kept asking about how you worked. I just kind of told her to watch the show and stop bothering me.”

“Good work. We're guaranteed at least one viewer.”

The area was dim, full of metal scaffolding rigged with lights and balconies and ropes. Another red curtain hung down, this one dark and velvety.

Alphys peeked through it then squeaked, whipping around to face him. “There has to be at least sixty people out there!”

Twin spikes of fear and delight shot through him. “You think so?”

Alphys checked again. “Yeah.”

“Right.” he said. He adjusted his gloves, snapping off a stray thread and discarding it.

One of them might be Napstablook, he knew. He had sent out the tickets himself.

Alphys breathed out shakily. “If I had to do something in front of that many people and have it broadcast, I'd probably pass out with fear the instant I got past the curtain.”

“I suppose,” said Mettacritic. 

It finally set in. This was it. He was doing this.

 

He mentally reached for his opening lines.

He had forgotten all of it past the first three. They had swept clean out of his head and taken his ability to think in full sentences with him.

Come to think of it, what was his name? It started with an M, he knew, or perhaps an H.

He pawed through the neon-highlighted script again, crumpling half of the pages in his haste. What had half an hour ago seemed his finest work now revealed itself the deranged ramblings of an unfunny madman.

A thought clawed up. Was it not possible that the execs had hired him specifically to watch him make an idiot of himself on live television? It was very possible. Why, almost certain. He had auditioned in a curtain, for God's sake.

Mettacritic hadn't felt this lightheaded since Altfan had dared him to phase into another monster's torso and watch their organs writhe. Was it too late to delay the whole thing? Maybe claim a technical error? Find a window to somersault out of?

Technical error seemed the best bet. He moved forward to say something to Alphys, but she beat him to it.

“I kept thinking of when I should show you this, but I guess now's as good a time as any,” said Alphys. She pulled off her jacket, fumbling a bit with the sleeves. She was wearing one of his official t-shirts underneath it. The purple clashed violently with her yellow scales. She smiled awkwardly up at him.

“Y- you're smudging my screen, darling,” he said, his tiles flickering.

Alphys moved as though to pat his arm, but seemed to remember her hands were sweaty and thought better of it. “Snapped it up before the demand you're definitely going to get. I haven't looked forward to a monster tv programme this much in.. ever.”

“That makes two of us!” said Mettacritic, though the nest of butterflies that seemed to have taken up lodgings in the pit of his stomach begged to differ.

What was he thinking? Even if he hideously embarrassed himself for all time, the mere fact that he'd tried would make him a million times superior to whatever faded versions of himself he'd left back in Waterfall.

“Ten minutes!” called a stagehand.

Not butterflies, he decided. Full blown whimsuns were doing cartwheels in there.

Alphys pulled her jacket over her arm. “I'd better take my seat, then.”

 

Mettacritic watched her as she scurried off and almost tripped over the potted plant prop. And then he felt alone. He conferred with a few stagehands to check things were going according to specifications, then handed away the script. His position was in front of the shining purple door with the gold handle, and he took it.

 

He knew the signal. It was time.

 

He phased through the wall.

 

Except opaque beings could not phase, and this included six foot tall killer robots. The wall exploded. His world was a flurry of wood splinters.

 

And then he was on the midnight floor flecked with glitter he had rehearsed on for hours. He couldn't see the audience at all. The same stage lights casting highlights over his metal casing had blotted out every last trace of them. He may as well have been looking into a black hole.

But he could hear them. They were...clapping. Could this..?

He elaborately reached out an arm and began to dust the splinters off himself with his fingertips.

They clapped louder, and he heard some laughter. Grinning himself would ruin the joke, of course. There was a feeling fizzing around him that he couldn't describe and wouldn't if he could. It got along very nicely with the butterflies.

He made his way to the centre of the room, and clasped his hands together. The lights dimmed, and a spotlight shone. Just like the script, he thought. He remembered it now, and why not? He had read it a hundred times.

The band began, not a song but a backing for a monologue. The songs came later.

“Not so long ago, a scientist began work on a construction for the royal guard. A robot. Model C771T70. An unfeeling weapon of mass destruction.” He tried to focus on the meaning and not the actual words as he spoke.

“But when she flipped on the switch, not a some _thing_ but a some _one_ awoke. She had created new life! A soul that wondered, thought- found its own purpose-” He stretched his arms out. “And that purpose, dear audience, is you!”

 

He breathed in theatrically. “Introducing- your metallic master of ceremonies, the heart in a hard drive, the AI that can never die-”

 

The name behind him burned bright in a thousand light bulbs.

 

Mettaton was live.

 


	10. punderstruck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're all lovely, you know that?

He woke up with Hotland's skylight dappling his face, and it wasn't a dream.

Thoughts of last evening were hazily lit up in his head, strung like constellations. Contestant A's odd little cough-giggle-blush when he lifted her arm. A giant pink bouquet forced into his arms after the show. Going around and handing out the flowers to the crewmembers and exchanging nothing but praise. The feeling that he could challenge Asgore himself to a fistfight and win. He had never wanted the night or the afterparty to end, and only relented when the persistent blip from his battery level became too loud to ignore.

Mettaton reached for the thick cord plugged into the open panel on his side and unplugged himself from the power cradle. He weighed it in his hands for a few minutes and then gently dropped it on the floor beside the bed.

He had spent the entire run-up to his debut thinking about the debut itself endlessly, and now that it had actually happened he felt oddly spent. Yet there was peace, too. It was a nice bit of knowledge to have, that you set out to do something and then did it.

But of course, this was only the beginning.

 

Mettaton pulled himself upright. Keeping hold of the duvet, he draped it around himself like a cape and crossed the room to the balcony doors. He flung them open dramatically.

Buildings stretched as far as the eye could see against red orange. Signs stared back from every direction. Most curtains were drawn or blinds closed, and the Tsunderplane roosts were still. This place never really shut down completely, but he had probably woken up early. Mettaton checked his internal clock- he had.

This morning was empty...or free, depending on how you looked at it. He would have to spend it alone. Alphys had work today, and he didn't know his new crewmates schedules well enough to know if they were free. That would have to change.

The people out milled about or moved with purpose, clear dark pinpricks against burning ground. Most of them were probably going to work themselves. Mettaton stood for a few minutes, his arms looped over the comfortably warm balcony rail, and quietly watched.

Everything felt so different. He was alone. He had to check.

Mettaton dropped the duvet on the floor and went to the side of the room. With a little will he moved forward. He was out. His eyes closed, he felt only weightless and formless. Disappointment fell through him.

Not corporeal, then. He had thought, if anything was a substantial enough burst of emotion to fuse him, it would have been that glorious premiere...but, no matter. Thoughts like that weren't particularly helpful. He settled back inside his body and turned his screen orange to prove it. Something to take his mind off it would be a good idea.

 

Ten minutes later, he had left the coffee bar and was nursing a cardboard cup of something that, for its price, had better be liquid platinum. But if you could try it... and his first paycheque was burning a hole in his wallet.

He had been to Hotland mall before, of course, but not recently. Businesses came and went, but the mall stayed mostly the same, at least since the refurbishment about fifty years ago.

The small record shop that always had the same lava lamp and the solar model in the window had been replaced by a drugstore, he noted. After the show, Alphys had quietly informed him that a certain seat had been empty; Napstablook had not shown up.

Mettaton rolled his coffee from hand to hand. He'd picked out the six fingered ones today, with gloves of a jaunty yellow silk. They looked good against the dark red cardboard.

 

People were looking at him, he knew. There weren't a lot of monsters out, mostly employees setting up the stores, but the ones there had noticed him, maybe even recognized him. Some were doing it discreetly and then looked away when he turned around, and he saw a few people glance at him and then double-take. And some were openly staring at him. He smiled extra hard at those ones as he passed.

 

He drank half his coffee, decided it tasted like aspic, flicked it into the nearest shiny chrome bin and headed for the town centre. It was nice to get under the skylight again. He perched on the edge of the dry fountain to refresh, made his way down a few obscure side streets..

And saw a familiar skeleton.

Sans was standing at the edge of a building, looking up at it. There was a thick rucksack on the ground next to him.

Who could resist?

He waited until he was very close before announcing his presence with a crisp metallic cough.

Sans looked around. “hey.” Underneath his weather-inappropriate jacket, he was wearing what looked suspiciously like a set of pyjamas.

There was familiarity there, and the particular type of it went through him like a red hot poker. The look in his eyes was that of someone greeting a friend, not a celebrity they'd never met...

“Do I know you?” said Mettaton, choosing his words with care.

“do i?” replied Sans. He bent down to rearrange his rucksack. There were library books sticking out of the half-zipped opening, but Mettaton was too distracted to read the titles.

He dropped the act. “Yes. You do know me. How?”

Sans zipped his bag. “the ai that can juggle rubenstein's revenge without colour-coded balls hasn't been invented yet. normally that'd just be strange, but..”

“You met me,” said Mettaton. He felt strangely cold, though the skylight beat down on him.

“seemed like your type of thing,” said sans.

“You'll.. take this to your grave?” He spoke cordially. There was no need to provoke him into anything, if that was possible.

Sans gave a little half-shrug. “whatever you want.”

“Thank you,” he said. It came out a little stiff. He straightened up to his full height, which was very full indeed. “So. Have you noticed anything different about me?”

“different?” said Sans.

Mettaton stretched out slowly and leaned against the building in the pose that had made the assistant light technician go crimson. “Different.”

Sans rubbed his chin. “Don't tell me, don't tell me.” He pulled his hand away. “No, I have it. Did you get a haircut?”

Mettaton was about to retort, but suddenly remembered the EX head nestled above his chassis. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

“Suits you,” said Sans. Did that grin get wider? It was a nice one.

“Thanks, darling. I love yours.” He moved back suddenly. “Well, I'd best be getting off. You'll doubtless be watching my show tonight, and I can't overdose you.”

“that'd be a shame,” said Sans. He sat down and began looking through his bag.

Mettaton turned around to leave, then paused to read the sign in the window of the building. It was a technical library.

He filed that thought away for later. He had things to try.

 


	11. super ethical reality climax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've suddenly realised that mettaton in the king mtt ending hires sans as his main agent/ bouncer.  
> does..that confirm that mtt knows sans pretty well? why would you hire a lazy guy with 1 atk/ 1 defense as a bouncer of all things unless you knew he could take a hit? idk im thinking too hard

“Beauties, gentlebeauties, welcome. And welcome back! I'll be your companion cuboid for the night.” He pulled his buffalo plaid jacket off, whipped it around his head and threw it into the black pit of the audience. He fancied he heard shredding sounds.

“As promised.. the scenario that won last week's vote-in by a landslide…. And only seventeen of those votes came from me…. We have it! CUT THE GREY WIRE it is!”

This audience was in good humour tonight. He threw his arms out as the contestants made their way on stage. “My lovely volunteers! Give them a big hand, everybody!”

Temmies in glittery dresses unveiled the four enormous bombs at the centre of the stage, posed, and then scampered offscreen.

“Now, the contestants will have to use all the technical skill at their disposal to figure out how to defuse the bomb,” Mettaton said, waving the 400 page pyrotechnics manual then throwing it into a nearby shredder. “If they aren't defused in time, they'll go off, and-”

He jabbed a finger at the oven another Temmie wheeled in the side of these screen, which was emitting a delicious smell. “You will ruin my innocent soufflé.”

A skull flashed onto his screen for a split second. “Also, YOU'LL ALL DIE. Food! For thought!”

The red numbers on the timer flickered on.

“Why, it's a shame they're all colourblind. If they cut the red wire the whole thing would be over with in a flash!”

The contestants twitched. He turned round ever so slowly to look at the audience.

“Unless-” He slammed a hand over his mouth. “I've been lied to! But surely not! If my contestants AREN'T colourblind, that would disqualify them! But...either way-” He pulled out his guitar as the timer began. “I shall serenade their attempts.”

 

* * *

 

“I spend an hour recalibrating that autotune module and you go and do this to yourself,” muttered Alphys into the open panel on his back.

“Sorry, mom,” said Mettaton, dabbing some of the splattered soufflé off his face with one finger and eating it. It was pretty good, if he did say so himself.

Alphys groaned. “Stop. People already think that's what I am, you know.”

Mettaton's tiles went a surprised yellow. “What, that I'm your...robot son?” It made sense, now that he thought about it. People would see a sentient robot and his creator and naturally wonder how they felt about each other.

“That or...something else. They stop me and ask me about it. It's so awkward.” He heard her bend down and rummage in the toolbox on the floor.

Something else? The sibling she never had, he supposed. The older, cooler one, naturally.

“You mean you don't want to make me a pie and tell me a bedtime story? I thought we were friends, Alphys.”

She chuckled, then began unpeeling two circuit boards from each other. “I don't know what to tell them. It's weird, I'm probably one of the only people in the Underground to know you're a ghost.”

“Hmm. Might not be an exclusive club, by the time Asgore sees me.”

“What do you mean?”

“When a ghost possesses a vessel, you're supposed to register it within a week. State what it is, corporeality status, if there's a name change, that sort of thing. You need it to qualify for home, life or combination home/life insurance.” Mettaton explained. “Although, with everything going on…”

“You couldn't be bothered, could you,” said Alphys.

“Guilty as charged,” he said. He threw up his microphone in a spiralling motion and caught it. “You have to admit, I'd rather stand out at the Ghost Relations Department line. ”

Alphys loosed a bolt. “Is there a penalty for submitting late?”

“Fine proportionate to income, I'm afraid. ”

“ _Now_ I get it.”

Alphys didn't quite get it. Mettaton had an entirely different reason for delaying the day-long trip to the building where everyone was a number and every pen was chained to the desk. The idea of his glittering stage persona being permanently and publicly roped to the Underground's backwaters was something he didn't like one bit.

But it was inevitable. His deal with Alphys to be presented to Asgore was the only reason he was here, and the king would recognize him without a doubt if he hadn't already. He had sold the man snails every month for more months than he could count. 

Mettaton reminded himself that diamonds were found in dark cave walls and stood out all the better for it.

Alphys cursed. The tools rattled behind him.

“Drop something?"

“I'm worried I won't be able to do this on time.”

“Commercial break is three minutes, we've only used two and we can stretch it out. Don't stress.”

Alphys sighed. “I need to make some blueprints that are actually readable by someone except me. I mean, what's going to happen to you if I go sunbathing and get hit by a lawnmower next Thursday?”

“You are funny.” said Mettaton fondly.

“How many people are a lawnmower away from a project failing is a real factor, actually. We got lectures about it all the time.” returned Alphys.

He backed down. “True. Having more than one person who can fix me sounds very useful. And I don't want to get you fired from your job.”

Alphys clicked the back panel of his form closed and walked around him, dusting her hands on her skirt. “My job. Yep.”

Mettaton could empathize with the distaste in her voice, but it was an effort now. He had the most wonderful job in the world. The crowd had started back up with anticipation.

“Say. How about we set the record straight?”

“We?”

“Yeah! We go out, you say hi. You can't blame them for being curious when you're a blanket mystery, Alphys.”

She was staring at the curtain, her eyes wide behind her glasses. “I don't know if I can talk in front of that many people.”

“Then don't. I'll introduce you, you wave, that's us.”

“And they'll not… dislike me?” Her hands picked at her t-shirt hemline.

“Don't think like that. You be good to them and they'll be good to you.” he said warmly. Perhaps a bit of nerves was essential. He still got them. Although it wasn't as bad as the first night- could anything have been worse than the first night?- he still felt flushed and intense before each performance, a sort of pleasurable knife-edge terror that could only be cured by going onstage and delivering.

 

He pulled her onstage, the lizard trailing several paces behind him. Her hand was so sweaty in his it almost slipped out. Applause greeted them, with the slight hesitation of confusion to it.

“Right, my lovelies! Before we get round to our next round, I'd like to introduce a very dear friend of mine!”

Mettaton pirouetted around, revealing her fully. Alphys's hand dropped out of his, and she was blinking behind her glasses. He should probably have warned her about the lights.

“This is the long-awaited Dr. Alphys! Her expertise is the reason Mettaton exists in the first place, and I can't thank her enough. Show her some love, people!”

He began clapping himself, and the entire audience responded. Alphys went red, and began to smile.

Mettaton let it happen for a few seconds, and decided that was just enough of a delay to the rest of the programming to get away with. When he steered her offstage she almost resisted him, he noted with some amusement . He gave her a quick wave then shot off to resume the show.

 

* * *

 

The next morning he fished his phone off the dressing table. The text message was short and to the point.

 

_ASGORE CALLED ME_

 

Here they went.


	12. important royal position

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> real life could try a bit harder to not be awful

Mettaton gave Alphys's face a last dab with the makeup brush, then dropped it onto the vanity. Beauty products for both man and machine littered the pink embossed surface. Bright neckties snaked around each other, loosely thrown on top of the fan letters he'd been re-reading until Alphys had arrived.

He brought his hands together and moved aside so Alphys could stretch. “All done, darling.”

Mettaton wasn't absolutely one hundred percent satisfied, but he knew himself well enough to know he would feel that way if he slaved at the same canvas for ten minutes or ten hours. And they were due to leave in five. Minutes, not hours, unfortunately.

Alphys tilted her head this way and that in the vanity mirror, a little half smile upon her lips. He contemplated teasing her about how much Asgore would like it, but if she went red his handiwork might smudge. He settled for looking in the mirror himself and adjusting his tie.

“It's not... too much, is it?”

He rolled down his neatly-folded sleeves and clicked in his cufflinks, little gold M shapes that pressed against crisp white. “If we get there overdressed, we can remove a few accessories and be fine. We get there underdressed, only God can help us.”

“You'd know, I suppose,” said Alphys. “Are you completely ok with the new additions?”

He shifted a bit on his wheel, his fingers almost brushing the wall before he drew them back. The new weight of the installed weaponry had taken a bit of getting used to, but it was an evenly distributed one, an internal suit of armour.

“Never felt more like a killer robot.” Mettaton pulled on his jacket, a tasteful burgundy number and did a quick twirl in the mirror. Wonderful.

 

Alphys had already taken the pristine labcoat off the padded hanger and shrugged it on. She knelt down next to the door with her back to him, detaching the anime keychain from her bag.

Just going to meet King Asgore. Not such a big deal, really. Mettaton took in a breath, then went back to the vanity. He picked up the least bulky of the fan letters, slotted it back inside its envelope and placed it in the inner front pocket of his jacket.

It slipped in discreetly, just thin enough to preserve the drape of the jacket. He gave it a little pat, then returned to the door. Alphys stood up, gave him an awkward smile and they headed out.

The limo was pleasantly cool and had more cushions than he knew what to do with. He had never been in one before, and neither had Alphys judging by her facial expression. He sat gingerly at the edge of the plush seat, smoothing out his jacket. Mettaton wondered why tiny refrigerators had never been a part of his life up until now. Alphys poked the dog-shaped napkin inside the wine glasses with a mesmerized expression on her face. He caught her eye and they tried not to giggle. This was mostly unsuccessful.

 

They fell silent as the Capital approached.

Mettaton had seen the castle glint far off in the distance as rain pattered onto his umbrella, and he had seen a pixelated version of it on tv as the king gave the monthly address, but that had been far different. It had never been a destination before. It towered solemnly through the tinted windows. He had always intellectually known that this was where their king ruled, this was where four humans had died, this was where the king's son had lost his own life. But for the first time he felt it through his core.

When they got out, the air was cold. They were taking the side entrance in, according to Alphys. The Capital stood in the distance with a quiet dignity, ancient stonework surveying them back. The air was clear and brisk, a measured slap in the face after the heat haze of Hotland.

He tapped a rhythm on the side of his arm as they moved. Alphys hummed the theme to Mew Mew Kissy Cutie and missed half the notes.

It wasn't until they were at the doorway to the entrance bordered by hedges that either of them spoke.

“He wants us to find the flower garden,” said Alphys.

So this was where Asgore lived. When Mettaton thought of royalty, he thought of rich velvet carpets and grand ballrooms and chandeliers like cascades of ice. Though he hadn't expected a modest man like Asgore to care for such things, he still managed to be disappointed. The walls were an uninspiring off-white, no real contrast anywhere, the floorboards that creaked beneath him dry echoes of the ones in Waterfall's snail farm.

“Where do you think it is?” said Alphys, looking around with interest. There was a flower in a pot on a small table, the only really interesting thing in the room.

“Never mind that. Where's the bathroom? Do you think he has one?” The two of them looked like a pair of peacocks in a fast-food drive in. He loosed his tie and stuffed it in his pocket.

Now that surprise had worn off, curiosity was edging in.

“I guess we'll have to look for the garden ourselves.” said Alphys

Mettaton heaved an unnecessary sigh. “I suppose we shall. Left first?”

“After you.”

 

Another bookshelf and a dining table. Four chairs seemed a lot for one man. He wondered how many guests Asgore usually had. Alphys wandered over to the bookshelf and examined the books, stroking a finger from one title to the next.

Mettatom surged ahead and found what he was looking for. The kitchen had a sink in it- smaller than the one at home, but still usable. He hesitated, then opened the fridge to confirm what he already knew. Snails. These ones were from a few days ago. Asgore had already put them in plastic containers, but the string on the original packaging would have been knotted very gently, with the ends tucked underneath.

Mettaton closed the fridge and went back to Alphys. She was reading the back of a book about the history of tea leaves. He motioned and carefully wiped half his masterpiece off her face with a wet bit of kitchen roll.

He checked his internal clock. “We probably have to find it soon.”

Alphys stared at the doors down the corridor they hadn't touched, but nodded.

They took the stairs down, there was another exit, and then- This was far more like it, he thought. A long hallway stretched in front of them, lined with marble pillars. Light drenched onto the polished marble floor. Dust motes swam leisurely, then span in frenzies as the two of them walked through. It felt like they were disturbing something that had always been there.

He glanced down at Alphys. Her brow was knitted.

“Are you alright?”

“I'm thinking about those blueprints I used without permission,” Alphys admitted, her voice so low he barely heard it. “Though I'm not sure why.”

“You took the words out of my mouth. I'm thinking about every movie I ever illegally downloaded,” he said. Among other things. There was something about this hallway that set an unpleasant tickle down his back. He looked at the space in between two pillars suddenly, but there was nothing there. “We shouldn't say these things out loud. Walls have ears, after all.”

 

 

The garden was a pleasant surprise of golden flowers. They were beautiful things, soft dewy petals that gently bobbed in a breeze rare in the Underground. He turned his screen #f7ec3b to match.

Next to the other door and in front of another window was a wire table covered with a tablecloth and a tea set. Sitting at it was King Asgore himself. The king stood to receive them, and his pleasant smile was in full effect. “You must be Dr. Alphys,” He bent down to shake her hand. Even kneeling, he towered over both of them. “And...Mettaton?”

He made a vague noise of assent and tried his best to look like a professional killer robot. Asgore shook his hand as well. He had thought his own metal fingers were unyielding, but Asgore's felt like warm rock.

They sat down. Mettaton chose the chair slightly closer to the exit.

“Would either of you care for some tea?”

He indicated a polite yes. Alphys nodded enthusiastically. The cup was steaming and smelled fragrant. For a minute or so paying Asgore his undivided attention was unnecessary. Mettaton paused for a few seconds over the plate of round golden biscuits, his hand hovering.

Asgore had noticed. “Don't worry. Those are storebought. I would not inflict my own cooking on a new friend.”

New friend.

Mettaton looked into Asgore's eyes. This confirmed it. The king had seen no trace of Mettacritic within him. Hope began to bud.

“I'm sure yours would have been fine,” Mettaton said, breaking a bit off the edge then putting it on his saucer.

He wrapped his fingers round the cup. It felt too hot to drink, but the warmth was a pleasant distraction. Alphys took a sip from hers, her hands shaking a little as she held it up. “T-thank you for having us, and hearing us out.” She took her hands away from her cup and fumbled with her bag. “Well, this is, obviously, Mettaton, and-”

She placed the bag's content on the table. It was the original designs, re-done in a clear and professional manner and neatly bound. With some choice diagrams missing.

Alphys laid the binder flat and began explaining a diagram of what was currently himself. This was her domain. Mettaton lifted his tea. It was so light and delicate it was almost flavourless. Alphys had drank half of hers and set it aside already. She was paging through the binder now, pointing features out and explaining them as Asgore made quiet comments.

His robotics study was definitely paying off, Mettaton decided. He could actually decipher most of Alphys's offhand comments for a change. He looked at the pair across the table. The parts of Alphys that weren't blushing were almost the same colour as the king's favourite flower. He would have to tell her that on the way home. Home! He mentally retracted everything bad he had ever thought about his dressing room.

Asgore looked up from the binder and addressed Mettaton directly. “You have two forms. Why is that?”

“It's a psychological warfare tactic. A human is likely to hesitate, if only for a moment, before attacking something that looks like a fellow human,” said Mettaton promptly. He kept his gaze fixed on the tablecloth, which had little embroidered delta runes on it.

“Mettaton's not interested in fighting humans,” said Alphys quickly. “But his weaponry can be replicated for people who are! Put into equipment for the royal guards to use, and such.”

“We can demonstrate if you'd like. In another room, of course.”

“Perhaps.” Asgore handed the papers back. “You're an accomplished woman, Dr. Alphys.”

Alphys went even redder. “Thank you, Mr. Drea-Dreemurr.”

Asgore pushed his own teacup away. “I have thought about your proposals. My answer is yes. I believe some of your combat proposals could work nicely with the royal guard. And yes, I will grant you enough money for the EX model to be completed, as well as any others.”

“Thank you! You won't regret this.” said Alphys. She grabbed Mettaton's hand. He squeezed it back as best he could, his fingers weak with relief.

Asgore turned to him.“Your show has done much to lift people's spirits. If you continue to aid monsters this way, I would appreciate it. ”

“I won't disappoint,” he said.

“But, truthfully,” said Asgore, and this time he looked only at Alphys, “I had an ulterior motive for inviting you here.”

He stood up.

“Would you like to walk with me? Both of you, if you'd like.”

Mettaton exchanged a look with Alphys, her expression as mystified as he felt.

Asgore led them through the doorway, past stone pillars and grass. He wanted to look around, but had to follow. They went through a doorway marked with two pillars-

This could only be the barrier. He had no idea what he was looking at, and yet knew instinctively. Every bit of magic in him resounded with the knowledge. It was millimetres thick but it stretched forward for a thousand years, fragile as a soap bubble yet radiating with power. There was a strong breeze brushing through the barrier, fresh brisk air with a scent he could not recognize. He let it play across his face.

“Y-you wanted to show us the barrier?” he heard Alphys ask. “Why?”

 

With difficulty, Mettaton tore his eyes away. Asgore's great form was streaked white-yellow in the sunlight shining in. It was fifteen past four in the afternoon, and this was the one place in the Underground that meant something. The king bent down and took Alphys's small yellow hand in his own.

“Your robot chose his own path. Sentience like that can only come with the creation of a SOUL.”

Mettaton couldn't bring himself to say anything. Alphys didn't, either. She was staring at Asgore as though nothing else existed.

“I don't want to make any unfair or unrealistic demands. On you, or on anyone. But you are the first scientist for a long time I have looked at with real hope.” He squeezed Alphys hand.

“Therefore, I am offering you a post that..has not been taken for a long time.”

Asgore adjusted his cloak back and drew out a keyring with five keys on it- silver, red, yellow, green and blue. “The position of royal scientist is yours, if you are willing to accept it.”

Alphys stared at him. Her cheeks still burned pink, but her eyes were shining.

“What...what would I have to do?” she said hoarsely.

“Use your knowledge of SOUL magic to break the barrier,” said Asgore. “So that we may be free.”

Alphys closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them wide, as though she was trying to commit everything to memory. “I accept.”

 

Mettaton made idle conversation on their way out, but he waited until they left the castle to start.

He didn't ask her why she'd lied. He knew perfectly well.

“Well, that was fun,” he said. “I could really go for some bitter, disgusting coffee right now.”

“You're not mad at me?” asked Alphys. “I kind of... lied about you.”

“That? Darling, I don't mind in the slightest.” Mild understatement. He felt as though his heart had been set free from an iron cage. There were no limits on anything Mettaton could be, not now. “I have to admit, the idea that the barrier could be broken by something other than another fallen human...”

“I never thought of it either,” confessed Alphys. “It's weird they never had even an interim scientist. Or anything, really.”

“Stranger things have happened, I suppose,” said Mettaton. He pulled his jacket off and felt pleasantly cold. “Never mind that. This is a windfall we didn't expect. If I can sway popular opinion and you're the one who grants us freedom, Asgore will have to listen to us. There might not have to be a war at all.” The thought was one he hadn't considered for most of a century. It was a wonderful one.

Alphys smile was growing. “If there's anyone who can talk Asgore out of it, it's you.”

“And if there's any monster who can break the barrier, it's you,” said Mettaton. They reached the waiting limo and he threw his jacket in the back seat. “Let's not go home. We have some celebrating to do.”

 


	13. doesn't everyone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i guess i should make the first part of this in italics to be consistent, but that'd be a pain to read so idk

It had been four months ago that Asgore made his proclamation of war on all of humanity. Four months ago that everything had changed.

Chara who ate a snail off a branch raw, whole, and he'd been so impresdisgusted he didn't even care they hadn't paid for it. Asriel, who had begged to have a turn on his new shining saxophone then gotten half his fur lodged in the keys. Visited once a week every week except when they wriggled out of going grocery shopping with Toriel which was almost never. Gone. Permanently. He had barely known them, and what he had known wasn't enough. It was a thought he often had when a friend passed away. Mettacritic's core had been replaced by a dull ache, and he wasn't alone. When Chara and Asriel had died, the entire underground's spirit had died with them.

Almost nobody had seen the Queen's journey to the ruins, Chara's small form cradled in her arms (A corpse, humans left a corpse instead of a scattering of dust- how alien that was) but a simple visit to a cousin had revealed some very interesting gossip spread amongst the spiders. A new house, and a new inhabitant.. deserted as the Ruins were...

It was considered bad manners to phase through a house's walls without permission, so Mettacritic knocked on the door and tried not to fidget as he waited. Hollow platitudes ran through his brain and went nowhere. _I'm so sorry for your loss. If there's anything I can do-_

The door opened.

He didn't say anything. Toriel looked at him. Her bearing was as regal as it always had been, her delta rune emblem proud against the rich purple of her robe.“I know why you're here.”

“You've got to come back,” Mettacritic said. “Asgore's declaration of war on humans-it's crazy. Complete insanity. And monsters are actually stupid enough to be happy about it.”

“That's why I moved here.” said Toriel. Her brown eyes did not meet his own.

He wasn't sure what he had expected from the Queen, but this quiet statement of fact was not it. “Why are you here?”

“If a human falls down, I will be here for them first. Before Asgore.” said Toriel. She bent down and picked up the post from the doormat, slower than was necessary.

“That's it? Why don't you challenge Asgore and stop this?” He was probably overstepping himself- no, he definitely was.

Toriel didn't seem to care. She answered him with the air of one humouring a person. “Challenge him?”

“Fight him! You would win. Why cower in the ruins? You're a boss monster. You're the Queen.”

Toriel stood still for a minute, turning over the lone letter in her white hands. “I understand that you are angry with me,” she said. “I am angry myself.” Her hands stopped moving. “But I am going to ask you to drop the subject.”

Mettacritic did not argue. This was as clear to a 'no' as the word itself would have been.

“I understand.” he said stiffly. He did not. If he had been dignified, powerful royalty instead of his own useless, formless self…. “I... have to go. I'm meeting my cousin.”

Toriel smiled, a small movement that did nothing to light up her face. “If you want to come back, please feel welcome. We can discuss other topics.”

“Maybe,” Mettacritic said, a wan smile on his own face.

He didn't know.

* * *

 

That shining white building that winked through the haze in his apartment view was coming into sight in person, and Alphys had talked today almost as much as Mettaton himself. The fact humans thought so casually of magic that they made up something called 'stage magic' was fascinating, and his own Saturday show based on it had gone down a treat, even if figuring out the child labour laws for the bunny had been a logistical nightmare. In turn, Alphys informed him she had already checked out every book the library had about SOUL magic and read them, which was truly impressive even for her.

“Here goes,” said Alphys, as slotted the silver key in the door.

It was huge compared to Alphys's old rooms. The movers had already been and dropped everything off. and the light was already on. Light green walls, blue-green tiles, brown cardboard boxes everywhere, the sealed tube containing the rolled up poster he'd given to Alphys earlier 'to brighten the place up a bit'…

There was a person sitting on one of the boxes. A person with a long-sleeved t-shirt with _donut talk to me_ written on it, sleeves pushed up to the forearms. Who waved.

“...I'm sorry..do I know you?” said Alphys, squinting at Sans. “I'm not great with faces.”

Mettaton moved forward and crossed his arms. “Sans, what are you doing here?”

Had this guy pretended to be a mover, or just slid past a distracted workman? Either way Mettaton appreciated the effort to make an entrance.

“i want to talk to you both about something.” Sans pushed himself off the box and walked over to them. He stuck out his hand to Alphys. “hey. I'm sans. You're dr. alphys, right?”

“Yes, I am,” said Alphys. She shook it politely, but as she drew her hand back gave Mettaton a glance that screamed 'please explain what's going on'.

He gave a little half-shrug back, then turned to face Sans. “Pleasantries over with, then. Why are you here?”

“That was fast,” said Sans, “but whatever you want. Right. There's, uh, no good way to phrase this, doctor. I know your position was given to you for a thing you didn't exactly do.”

Mettaton had considered this as a possibility. He knew his next course of action.

This was honestly kind of a shame.

“Do you ever watch mystery programs? They're a favourite of mine. I've been thinking about making one myself,” Mettaton began. Sans didn't seem at all put out by his changing the subject. Alphys looked mystified herself.“There's always this one plot where the reporter or the parlourmaid or whoever tries to blackmail the culprit into silence.”

Sans opened his mouth to say something, but Mettaton held up one hand and quick-assembled a bomb in the other. “And you just think- wow. Wow. You are honestly stupid enough to be threatening a guy who did something hideously illegal to escape his last dilemma.” He disassembled the bomb in a split second and smashed a banoffee cream pie into Sans's face. He dusted his hands off. “Thanks for playing, though. No parting gifts.”

 

He gave credit where credit was due. Sans took it well.

The skeleton slowly removed the pie from his face, taking care to keep it in the case, then lowered it. “there really _was_ no good way to phrase that. look. i don't want to threaten or blackmail either of you. that's not what this is at all.”

Behind him, Alphys wheezed like air escaping a camp bed. Mettaton willed his screen not to go red. He threw his arms out. “Well, why didn't you say so, you silly thing?”

Sans entire head was coated in pie filling, but hadn't made even a token effort to wipe it off. “must have slipped my mind somehow. anyway,” He pulled out a set of rolled up blueprints from the bag half- hidden behind some of the boxes. Sans set them on one of the stacks of sealed boxes, quite gently. “the only reason I brought that up.. is because I have my own stuff I'd like you keep quiet about. collateral, basically.”

Sans produced a pizza wheel from apparently nowhere and began to cut into the mangled remnants of the pie left in the tin. “ok. I have this machine that needs repair. i'm pretty sure it's beyond me at this point. but robotics was never my strong point, where it's obviously yours. so this is sort of convenient, in a way.”

Convenient. That was a good one.

“You need me to do what, exactly?” said Alphys. Doubt was written all over her face. Mettaton didn't blame her.

“it's kind of hard to explain. You can look at it in person.” Sans patted the blueprints flat. “i can't pay you the wage you deserve, but i'll give you everything I have about soul magic.”

Alphys wavered. “I...I'll need to see your machine first. And know what you want to do with it. Before I agree to help you.”

“completely understandable.” said Sans. “this is really good, by the way,” he added, his mouth full of pie.

“Only the best for my viewers,” said Mettaton, and he had to fight to keep the amusement out of his voice.

Sans chuckled, then picked up his bag. “right. we can meet later on. seven sound good to you?”

“Fine,” said Alphys, a little faintly.

“Just fine,” said Mettaton, and there was a lilt to his voice.


	14. you'd really rather stay at home

About five minutes after Sans had left, he had stuck his head back round the door(and had somehow already changed his clothes, impressive by any standards) and requested the time of their rendezvous be rescheduled to six. Mettaton had at the time wondered if there was some great mystery to this; the 'Happy hour 5pm-8pm' sign hanging on the back of the door at Grillby's was apparently the great answer.

It was seven, and everything was going just fine. The fifth highest pop number on the charts beat a steady rhythm through every surface and into his head, and the familiar sound of laughter and conversation and people in general blended into it. Glass flashed orange as the bartender flipped and mixed, casually lighting a drink with his own head then sliding it across the bar. Mettaton admired his wristwork.

He was sat next to Alphys in the booth. Sans leant back into the plush chair opposite him, half-empty pint glass in his hands and the air of one who could do this until thrown out. Alphys, tucked into the corner, had long-since commandeered the table quiz. Mettaton pushed his nearly empty ginger ale back onto the coaster- the cocktails in this place looked tempting indeed, but on this occasion he had wanted every scrap of his wits about him- and rested his face in his hands.

“for a team of a robotics phd, a quiz show host and...me, we're doing surprisingly badly at this,” Sans observed.

Mettaton tutted. “I don't study history. I make it.”

“Look, it's been a while since I took introduction to-- I mean, no one uses that type of drive anymore. Why should I know about it?” said Alphys, drumming the pen against the table.

Sans nodded sagely. “and i'm so lazy I can't even think up an excuse.”

Mettaton just laughed. “Alphys, give me the quiz.”

Alphys pulled it away from his grasp. “I drew a really good Mew Mew on the back.”

“Please! I just figured out the seven-letter one.”

“no you haven't,” said Sans, looking at it sideways.

There was a sudden drop in noise levels as the song playing on the jukebox ended.

“Hey, Mettaton, could we go outside for a bit?” said Alphys.

He downed the rest of his drink. “Sure.”

“i'll get us another sheet,” said Sans, standing up.

 

 

 

He stood outside with Alphys, the warm yellow glow of the window thrown over the thick snow. Now that they were alone, he adjusted his long cloak to let cold air on his face. The disguise was carefully nondescript- such outfits were not noteworthy in Snowdin, especially from someone coming through the Waterfall way.

The air rang with silence, cut when Alphys sighed with relief. “Sorry, I just- all those people.. it really drains me. I don't understand how you can do that all night.”

“High pain tolerance?” he suggested.

Alphys shook her head at him and began tracing pictures in the ice that edged over the doorframe.

“So,” he said. “Sans.”

Mettaton had discreetly checked as they had started for Snowdin, brushing Sans's arms against his own in an accidental sort of way that wasn't strictly necessary. 1 ATK 1 DEF. The realisation that he could have killed the skeleton with complete and total ease had almost stopped him in his tracks. Yet Sans had barely seemed to mind when Mettaton had drawn a weapon in arm's length of him.

There was a lot he didn't know here.

Mettaton pushed the hood back over his face.“When he said he had a secret machine that he needed to blackmail us into silence about, I thought it would be a money counterfeiting thing. But…”

“Time travel?” Alphys completed. She put another stroke into the door-art then dropped her hand.

“Do you think he's crazy, or should we actually humour him?” asked Mettaton.

“You're asking me?” Alphys said, but when Mettaton was silent she continued. “I don't know. It all looked... plausible. His plans and the machine and the maths checked out, theoretically.”

“And practically?” Mettaton prompted.

Alphys pushed her glasses up her nose, which was going pink in the cold. “The closest to 'travel through time and space' I've ever gotten is Magica Madoka, and you've seen more episodes than I have.”

He remembered. Alphys had not liked the death scenes. “So this guy is capable of doing something no monster has ever done before. Or he's completely insane. Either way, he could ruin us.” Sans had not elaborated much further. Where he had come from exactly and why and how much he knew he had left vague, but the total holes in the story almost made it more believable, not less.

“You summed it up, not me,” said Alphys. “But...I can't lie, I'm interested. I mean, this is… like you said. Something no monster has ever done before. If...” Her features furrowed for a moment, then loosened as she looked up at him. “What do you think we should do?”

He supposed it was no wonder a scientist would have seen that angle. Mettaton glanced into the window. Sans was quietly drumming the pen against the his half-full glass.

“I think we should play along for now. If he's crazy, we can catch him off guard. If he's the real deal...” Sans had spotted him and jerked his thumb towards the jukebox, an enthusiastic grin still on his face. A familiar set of chords had began, half-muffled by the glass- his own single _Cutting Edge_. “We've made a very interesting new friend.”

 


	15. this was a good idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter probably makes no sense but after a mountain of hand-in season stress 'n' procrastination i'm fine with that. Next one should be a lot quicker... One of my main problems with this dang story is that I know where it's going, but I don't know how when? how to pace it? I'll keep that in mind next time I plan to write something.

“You're sure that's all that happened?”  
Mettaton was slumped against glass opaque with flyposters of a Hotland payphone booth, wishing the end would come soon. Rhinestoned fingers tightened around the pink smartphone he had cradled against his head, the payphone in the corner hanging ignored. He felt like someone had poured poison over his dial display and left it to air-dry. Which, considering last night, was entirely possible. He pushed the phone a little flatter against his head.  
Alphys's amused sigh came loud and clear through the speaker. “I dragged you back to my place, since I figured you wouldn't want your new neighbours to see you sneak in mysteriously.” There was a scrape of metal against plastic, presumably fork vs ramen container. “No one saw you under the cape, honestly.”  
“Decent of you,” said Mettaton. The lab was still covered in boxes, but sleeping standing up wasn't the worst experience in the world.   
Alphys snorted. “What were you thinking?”  
Mettaton considered, mentally composed an answer, then hung up.  
That was admittedly a touch pathetic. He would have to think up a very good opening the next time he met Alphys.  
Drinking something had seemed like a good idea at the time. He had good… yes, a good idea at the time. It had apparently seemed a good idea to Sans, too. Maybe not everything was part of an overreaching master plan.  
He gave his temples one last massage with the tips of his fingers, then pushed open the door of the payphone booth.  
  
With some effort, he found a postbox on Hotland plaza (why was this city so annoyingly bright, he wondered for the first and hopefully last time) and slotted a thick, galaxy-decorated letter into it. Address Blook Farm.  
He had tried to send a letter, usually including promotional material and song samples, every week, then every fortnight. Blooky wrote back, but they were sterile, undetailed responses, congratulating him on each new achievement without prying further. They were treating him like a distant family member you got soap for at the holidays because you didn't know what they actually liked. Just because...  
Mettaton pushed the thought down. He had more important things to consider right now. Besides, when Alphys broke the barrier or after the seventh human fell, he would have all the time in the world. Ghosts lived for aeons. They could easily catch up. There was no point in worrying about it.  
  
Up ahead, there were a few small birds pecking around at the base of the waterless water fountain. Next to it was a bench with Sans on it, reading a newspaper, drinking a soda and quietly chuckling to himself.  
Mettaton adjusted his gloves before he spoke. “Anything good?”  
Sans held up his reading material.  
Is TV's Mettaton SECRETLY a GHOST? screamed the newspaper headline.  
Mettaton clapped his hands together. “What do you think? I'd say I'm quite the ghost writer.”  
He had written up what was more or less the truth behind his backstory, but added a pronunciation guide for Asgore's name, detailed the merits of various types of tinfoil in the second paragraph, and generally done his best to channel coffeeless Alphys writing fan theories at 4 in the morning. He had then submitted it to the least credible newspaper he could find.  
Nobody with the slightest amount of sense was going to even consider the possibility as true, when it was wedged in between articles about Undyne secretly being a Froggit or recipes for Concrete-Cinnamon Bunnies.   
“i liked the bit about the ectoplasm coolant.” said Sans. “paragraph two could have used some work, though.”  
Mettaton chuckled. “I'll keep it in mind for the autobiography.”  
Sans laid the paper aside and patted the seat next to him. “you look sixteen times better than I feel.”  
Mettaton tried not to let his fluttering hesitation show as he took it. “I feel sixteen times worse than I look,” he replied. “I honestly didn't expect Mr. Grillby to have such a strong throwing arm.”  
“didn't expect him to kick us out.” Sans rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “next time, you suggest the venue?”  
“Mm, we need to make Alphys look dignified by comparison in every venue. Every. Venue.”  
“i can...not drink to that suggestion.” He held up the empty hand, seemed to realise his mistake, then held the soda can hand aloft instead.  
Mettaton clapped his hands together lightly. “Why she thinks you're a low four I'll never know.”  
Sans froze. “You two... rated me?”  
He had said that out loud? He resisted the urge to fumble with his collar. “Darling, we rate everyone.”  
“...Alphys says I'm a _low four_ ,” said Sans after a pause. Who knew skeletons could blush?  
The 'and you?' was unspoken. “Oh, a fifteen. Easily.” supplied Mettaton. There would never be a better entrance than this. Regardless of whether or not this was a good idea, which...he would worry about later. “What's your sign?”  
Sans grinned again. “Stop,” he said, in a tone that indicated the exact opposite.


	16. i see you shiver with anticipation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok honestly i didn't plan this thing out as well as i should have. so, uh, there might be some time skips. i just don't want to write any chapters where nothing happens solely to pad the thing out. i don't know. please bear with my anxious ass

Mettaton EX took a handstapled book out of the cardboard box sharpie-marked AU fics.

 _“Class president Asgore! I- I didn't expect to see you in the woodworking shop!!” said Alphys-chan, her cheeks glowing under her perfectly done makeup_ was the introductory line. It was also the only line he would read, he decided, for fear of breaking his new form's ribs.

“Is that the one about us being magic alien rocks?” asked Alphys, shelling a catgirl statue from bubblewrap as she spoke. They were unpacking post-move, and the lab almost looked presentable. The walking-practice mattress lay propped against the wall.

Mettaton showed her the book, which had his telepathy-drawn illustration of a ghost and a lizard in glittery sailor fukus on the front cover.

Alphys visibly cringed. “Oh my god, I forgot we wrote that. You want to burn it?”

He held it close to his chest, his chin held high. “Never. It's a masterpiece. Deserves publication and serialization under a seventeen-letter pseudonym. Have you got that one about us fighting sea monsters as a giant robot?”

Alphys blinked, then suddenly giggled. “I...I think I used it to line the floor when I did the oil exchange on you.”

Mettaton pretended to swat her over the head with the book, then dropped it back in the box. “Honestly woman, you've no quality filter.”

He strode over to the far end of the lab and brought over the last of the boxes, lifting it with ease one handed. His high heels made the most satisfying tick-tick-tick on the tile imaginable, like the countdown of a bomb.

The form was far from finished. The rough mechanics were all there, wires threaded like veins through chrome muscles left bare. It looked odd, he knew, but it didn't truly phase him. The most important piece was already complete. He reached up and touched it, almost to check it was still there than anything. A sculpted faux-cheekbone and an angular jawline pressed back against his smooth fabric-covered fingers.

He savoured the moment. A god in a rectangular chrysalis. Once the form was done, he would be more powerful than Asgore. They would be in a position to stop the war before it started, even if diplomacy failed. It was a heartening thought.

Mettaton returned to Alphys, who was leaned back in her chair. On her desk sat miles high of textbooks and a small cactus in a neat ceramic pot. The tag proclaimed it a housewarming gift from King Asgore. It had arrived by messenger a few mornings ago, accompanied by a note Alphys had blushed profusely at and quickly tucked into her labcoat. She was absent-mindedly rolling the pot between two hands now.

Alphys looked up then breathed out with relief. “This is the last box. Ah- are you doing anything urgent?”

“Nothing particularly so.”

“I need to check out downstairs. Could you come with me? It seems...”

“Dangerously nerdy?”

“Dangerously _dark_. The power's not been turned on yet and I don't think there's phone reception that far down. If I trip over something and break my leg I'll be...” She trailed off and let him fill in the adjective.

“Then it's a good thing you won't have to,” he replied. “And you might need my offensive capabilities?” Honestly he'd be thrilled to actually get to use them. It was tragic, having that much power but no way to really feel it.

Alphys raised an eyebrow. “Your weaponry? Why would we need that?”

“You said it yourself, no one's lived here in ages. Ghosts are kind of infamous for squatting places like that. Or it could be something worse,” he said, then seeing her dismayed reaction added, “Like small rats! Or smaller mould! Nothing we can't handle.”

Alphys dashed off a note to leave on the desk, (he spotted the words _to identify_ and _mangled corpses_ but decided to say nothing) and then shrugged her coat on.

Mettaton hunched down as he got in the lift next to her. He was just a little too tall to fit. It felt quite wonderful to take up so much space. Alphys wriggled down lower, fiddling with her phone. He felt the familiar swoop in what would have been his stomach as they went down. Finally the door clicked open, and a solid wall of blackness scattered away from the lift's cube of light.

They stepped out and forwards into the corridor. Suddenly they were plunged into darkness as the lift doors shut. Alphys flicked her phone's torch on, and Mettaton heard a faint click as his eyes began to shine white in the dark. “You really do think of everything, don't you?” he said under his breath.

Alphys didn't reply but there was no doubt she heard it. Things were quiet, muted, not even the whine of fluorescent lights to keep them company. Even their footsteps didn't echo here, as though every note of noise was being sucked out. They walked down the corridor. The walls were totally bare, the floor uniform tile. This place was very much all business. He was suddenly very aware of the smell of alcohol hanging around him, having earlier christened his new form with a bottle of Lower Hotland's priciest champagne.

The place was creepy, there was no other word for it. It was so reminiscent of his grandparents' holiday home he half expected to find a presentation ouija board hanging on the stark walls. He breathed out to remind himself of where he was. What he was.

Ahead, they finally spotted something. A four-colour lock door glowed dimly ahead of them.

Alphys consulted a note on her phone. “Asgore couldn't tell me a lot about this place, but I believe the power hub is behind that door.”

As they got closer, a vending machine swam into view, shining in a block of white against their twin light sources.

Alphys visibly perked up, scurried forward, pulled out her pink cat-print coin purse and began to feed gold into the machine.

“You're... that hungry, darling?” Mettaton said, bemused.

“If we check the sell-by date, that might give us a more accurate idea of when this place was last inhabited,” said Alphys, her snout pressed against the glass as her selection unravelled from the metal spring.

“Good idea,” he said. Although she could have just vandalised the machine instead of wasting twenty five gold, but maybe the machine was still salvageable.

“Thanks,” she said, picking up the chisps and squinting at the bag. “...Or not. They don't have a sell-by date.”

“Can I look at the ingredients?” If there was one thing he(well, anyone really) knew better than Alphys, it was cookery.

He let out a low whistle as he read. “I haven't read a list of preservatives this long since the food industry lawsuit transcripts were leaked. These could have been here since the barrier was created.”

“Or since vending machines were invented,” Alphys pointed out.

Mettaton handed the bag back. “If you want to be sensible about it, yes. And I won't taste test, so don't suggest it,” he added.

Alphys put the chisps in her lab coat pocket. “No, no. No. Okay. Time to open this door already.”

“Way ahead of you,” said Mettaton. In an impossibly graceful gesture, his hands looped over and under and ten bombs glittered into existence in front of the door. The fuse on each lit up one by one with a pop, orange, neat, like birthday candles.

Alphys cleared her throat and jangled her full keyring pointedly.

The bombs flared out and dropped on the floor, rolling away. Mettaton blew his hair out of his eye melodramatically. “Well, fine. If you want to be boring about it.”

Alphys opened the door with a little unnecessary flair. The room they found themselves in was an unusual one indeed. An odd machine with a dim red heart display took pride of place in it. Alphys hesitated, seemed to press something on it-

And suddenly the whole place was lit up, and it was no longer a festering den of potential evil but instead a normal, even slightly boring laboratory. Even the machine in shape and in the pattern of the tubing suddenly reminded Mettaton very much of himself. He felt himself calm down, though he hadn't realised he was tense.

“I don't think there's anyone here,” he said. “But we might as well have a look around the rest of it, just to make sure.”

“Sounds fine,” said Alphys. From the tone of her voice she was as quietly relieved as he was. “Say. You want to tell me how well you understood that science fiction novel Sans lent you?”

 

The lab was a lot louder after that.

 


End file.
